Just Reckoning
by WolfButler
Summary: A jump into the life of D.Butler. At thirteen he's a lean, mean, fighting machine. Maybe too lean. The Major knows something is up. He's suspected it for a while now, but he's been biding his time. Some things are best approached with all the caution awarded to a live bomb; highly-trained, defensive, teenage nephews are one of them. Of the "From The Rough" fic-set. WARNINGS APPLY.
1. Prologue

**A Big Thank-You To: Steinbock, Jolinnn, Shadow914, Reader, jayjthebigmouth, Guest, P.S. Sword, just do it, Lilith Jae, Sana Lama Samaha, Holiday Boredom, Laura, DaFan, krissygarza12, Alchemechanist and (just in under the wire) KATH. If you're a guest reviewer, I can't reply directly, but take it from this: you are very much appreciated all the same and at some point in the A/Ns, I will get round to answering your queries. Just not at the top of here, I have too much to say already haha**

 **It seems strange to start with a thanks, but I could not begin posting this fic without at least giving a mention to the brilliant, wonderful, unbelievably kind-worded people who made the effort to review the snippet posted in Lil Rems and let me know that yes - there are people out there who want to hear about Butler's backstory. There were sixteen of you who reviewed in the first couple of days. That's... well, that's more than I ever hoped to hope of. So to all of you, thank-you. Your reviews are my motivation to post what I create and, honestly, it makes it worth the while.**

 **I hope this lives up to expectations.**

 **Two more important things before we start:**

 **DISCLAIMER: All characters and locations recognisable from The Artemis Fowl Series belong to the genius Eoin Colfer. All the others... well, I'll take responsibility for them. (If you _really_ insist, then I guess I'll even take responsibility for characterisation of The Major, seen as though he's a two-time mention in the books... Big ask, though...haha)**

 **WARNINGS: There will be swearing - some of it strong. There will be violence - again, some of it strong. There will be mentions of child abuse, illegal activity, torture, serious injury and even death. And that's just the basics. This fic is rated as a 'T' because in my opinion, most teens will cope fine with it. After all, I was writing this sort of stuff whilst below the 'M-rated' age limit myself. So class it as a high 'T', if you will. If you're not happy with that, this fic probably isn't going to be for you. I'd apologise, but honestly I just refuse to block out the vast majority of my audience for the sake of a societal opinion on their maturity as readers.**

 **And with that wordy intro over...**

 **Let us begin...**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

 _ **T'was the night before the night before Christmas, but something certainly was stirring in the rather large house, set on a small hill just on the outskirts of the city of Dublin...**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

Myles 'The Major' Butler was awoken in the middle of the night by nothing but the distinct feeling that _something_ was wrong.

This vagueness was not very useful of his subconscious, as there were a great number of things which could have disturbed his sleep and, for him, a fair number of those were not likely to be benign.

To a normal person, of course, this feeling could have been the hangover of a nightmare they couldn't quite remember. Could have been the disturbance of the central heating ticking over – or an animal rustling outside. Could simply have been the nagging thought that they had perhaps left the oven on – or forgotten to put the bins out. But although this wing of the manor _did_ have newly-installed central heating that the light-sleeping bodyguards were still getting used to and the manor grounds were certainly large enough to house a veritable _safari_ of wildlife, it was neither of these things that had awoken him. Forgetting to do something was not in his nature, nor for that fact, his nurture. And as for nightmares... well, he was well-used to those. Men of his experience did not get to where he was by dwelling on the replayed horrors of the past.

So what _exactly_ had woken him up?

The Major folded back his thick blanket and eased himself to the edge of the mattress silently. Unfortunately for him, his subconscious would not let him sink back into the welcoming warmth of his bed without first checking for the reason it was harassing at him.

He crossed the room to his window, squinting out across the snow-coated grounds for signs of a soon-to-be-regretful intruder. Seeing nothing, he snagged a thin hooded-top – usually reserved for cooling down after a hard session of training – and slung it on, zipping it up over his chest to give him some protection from the cold should he need to go outside. Not willing to be discovered wandering the manor half-dressed, this was followed by a pair of jogging-bottoms before he stuffed his feet bare into the hefty boots he had worn for so long they had moulded to him like a second skin of supple, black leather. They were perhaps his third pair of Academy-issued boots, but each the previous pairs had lasted him at least a decade. His hand hovered over the gun he kept – when it wasn't tucked into its holster – secured onto the underside of the bedside table on a magnetic strip. With a roll of his eyes, it was tucked into his waistband without a second thought. Better to be prepared when he faced what was seeming more and more likely to have been a figment of his imagination.

The Fowls were long-since tucked up in their down-duvets, but despite the December chill that had wrapped its grip around the stone walls, sending creeping chills along the floorboards, he – and indeed his father too – preferred not to indulge in such luxurious bedspreads. Particularly not since the instalment of 'that infernal heating system', as the eldest Butler of the manor had taken to referring to the latest upgrading of the ancient manor. No – a rough blanket would suit them just fine. And, after his recent trip to Siberia, when he once again came to stay here, the youngest Butler of the family would surely be practically _sweating_ whilst his body re-acclimatised to the temperatures of the inside of Fowl Manor in the grips of an Irish winter.

As much as the older man complained about the noise of the machine that kept the air ambient within the brickwork setting him 'on edge at night', The Major did not meet his father in the corridor outside the confines of his room and so concluded that it had been him alone disturbed by whatever was causing the distinct feeling of unease crackling under his skin.

His first port-of-call was the room next door. Artemis – his charge of over seventeen years now – did not so much as stir as The Major trapped the spherical, brass handle in his grip and twisted it carefully, silently pushing the door open on its well-oiled hinges. The teenager was tucked up on the four-poster bed, coiled in on himself against the open air of his large bedroom. The Major allowed the shadow of a smile to flicker across his face. Artemis never looked more childlike than when he was sleeping. But still, the boy was almost a man. He may not yet have grown into his gangling limbs, but that would come with time – _sooner_ if he deigned to follow the training program The Major had written up for him, but of course he would not – and had currently taken to wearing his hair _ridiculously_ long, in his bodyguard's opinion. Not that he said so. Butlers were not employed for their opinions on their principal's looks – or otherwise. Unless those looks somehow compromised their safety. Which chin-length hair did not. Or at least, not unless Artemis were to walk into something due to it's adeptness as a visual impairment, or if the boy's mother's threats to go at his locks with a pair of scissors in the night, were counted. Judging by the raven fan across the pillow, she had not yet come good on her word this evening, at least.

The Major closed the door, unsurprised to find that he felt a little better that he had found his charge safe and entirely undisturbed. But the underlying feeling of unease had _still_ not gone away.

He ground his teeth slightly – a terrible habit he had been chastised greatly for at The Academy – and made his way to the stairs, padding down them quietly and avoiding the pressure-pads which would send alarm signals to both of the Butlers' rooms. The last thing he needed was to explain to his father that he was wandering around the manor in the middle of the night because he 'had a _feeling_ ' something was not right.

The hallway was predictably dark, empty and devoid of any sign of life, although he still paused at the supply cupboard to pick up a small pencil torch as he went past, shining it at each of the silent sentries of armour in turn. Not with suspicion, though. For some reason, he felt a strange comradery with the metal shells, wordlessly guarding the hallways, unnoticed by most and unappreciated by all.

Thinking that perhaps a check of the closed-circuit television cameras surrounding the manor would put him at ease, The Major opened the door to the CCTV room, sinking into a swivel chair and logging into the permanently-booted computer swiftly. In future, maybe computers would take less than three and a half minutes to turn themselves on, but until such a date, the Butlers were willing to argue the toss over the slight increase in the electricity bill in order to have instant access to the surveillance system. Recordings for later analysis was all well and good, but what was the point in having a real-time live-feed at hand, if in actuality it was quicker to go outside and look? Something about not getting shot at, probably...

But, as he methodically clicked through the cameras, casting experienced eyes over every image, each grainy screen showed nothing out of the ordinary. The banks of snow piled up along the walls were undisturbed by intruders and none of the movement sensors had been set off. He was about to log off and privately put the whole thing down to being a – what Blue Diamonds liked to refer to as – _Perfectly Arguable Response to Any Natural Or Incidental Alertness_ , when he spotted something on the camera covering the wall to the tradesman's entrance. Or rather, _several_ somethings.

He clicked on the screen, enlarging it to get a clearer view of the indents in the snow. They could be shadows; more likely they were animal tracks. But still… He zoomed in, following the unevenly-placed hollows, past a larger area of flattened snow _– a drag mark? –_ to the door itself. It was difficult to see using this camera, so he switched to the one situated on the wall itself. It was at his own insistence that this camera had been bought and placed, for what was the point in being able to see right up to the door, if you could not see what was waiting in the blind-spot of the doorway itself, ready to kill you? Or in this case, what was huddled up against the door in a shapeless form – which was probably _not_ a bin-bag waiting to be carted off to the disposal compound by some lazy member of the kitchen staff. Although this was only discounted in his mind as a dim possibility due to the severe warning the very same staff had been given the day before by The Major's father about the hazards of _'using the goddamn doorway as a bloody waste tip - you dim-witted imbeciles!'_.

On second thoughts as to the security conciousness of the various other members of staff who serviced the Fowls in their manor, The Major considered that it still may indeed very well be a bin bag.

And then he considered what it could be... if it was not.

Stray animal. Injured wildlife. Or…

Well, if it had come from an external source, there was one way to find out from _where_ exactly whatever it was that was huddled in the doorway as a pointless attempt at avoiding the cold, had gotten into the manor grounds.

He clicked on another program on the screen, navigating quickly to the section he needed, wondering which defence had been breached without alerting them.

 ** _Gate 14 – Last Opened – 23-12/02:49am_**

He glanced at his watch.

 ** _2:57am_**

He stood swiftly, his hand straying to pat the gun tucked comfortably into his waistband.

Well at least that cleared up what had woken him…

* * *

 **Well, that was the prologue. I hope that was an interesting enough start for you all.**

 **I'm thinking of posting every couple of days or so. Gives me a chance to polish each chapter before it goes up and also give you all a chance to read it. As hard as it is to refrain from posting it all at once, I've found that fics do better reader and review-wise if I don't post the whole thing lightning quick once a day until I run out of chapters haha Speaking of which, the majority of the rest of the chapters will be much longer than this, as is my usual custom.**

 **So... what do you think? I've had this under my hat, so to speak, for so long that now I'm really eager to hear what you all think. Although obviously, that couple of thousand words or so wasn't very much to go on, so if you want to wait until a few chapters in, I definitely understand.**

 **Looking forward to hearing from all you fellow Butler-fans,**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

 **p.s - I really am rarely seen without a hat. My preferred winter head-garment is probably best described as a dark-green, woollen beanie approximately the size and shape of a large tea-cosy... In summer, I'll be in a cap. Sometimes it's a flat one. I find all are equally good for keeping stories under :)**


	2. Chapter 1: Cold Caller

**Thanks to: jayjbigmouth, Guest, P.S Sword, Shadow914, Laura-Wilkie, Steinbock, HolidayBoredom, Alchemechanist, me and KATH for the very kind reviews.  
** **And to: Readergirl99, write that wrong, Steinbock for the follows.  
And to: Steinbock, HolidayBoredom for the faves.  
You guys are what keeps me posting :)**

 **Reminder as here is where some of the warnings come into place in earnest:**

 **WARNINGS:** **There will be swearing - some of it strong. There will be violence - again, some of it strong. There will be mentions of child abuse, illegal activity, torture, serious injury and even death. And that's just the basics.**

 **This is a wordy chapter, but a bit slow. Please bear with, those of you who have read my fics before will know I take a little time to set up before it gets going. So without further ado... on with the show!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE: Cold Caller**

 _ **Cold callers arrive unannounced and often at inopportune times. They do not usually, however, arrive at three o'clock in the morning, the very embodiment of their title.**_

 **Outskirts of Dublin, Ireland**

 _Just a few more steps,_ he told himself. _Can't stop yet. Come on. Push through it. There's another side. You know there is. There **always** is, isn't there? Just a little further…_

The attempts at rallying the last of his strength were becoming less and less successful as he went on, forcing himself past the barriers that pain and exhaustion threw up at him to the not-quite mythical emergency supply of energy beyond.

But he was well beyond anything but the barest wisp of second – _third, fourth, fifth, half-a-dozenth_ – wind by now. And speaking of throwing up, he had nothing left to do that. His stomach shivered with emptiness and cold and he realised he probably should have taken better advantage of the unguarded food stalls back at the Christmas Market he had scurried through last night. This was the end of his second day of travelling and in that time he had had nothing more than what he could swipe without the vendors noticing. And even then he had been _very_ cautious. If he got caught, they would involve the police. And if they involved the police, as a minor there was only one place he would be ending back at. And that would make the whole stupid endeavour completely pointless. Not to mention the fact that he would be in trouble. _Big_ trouble. Potentially even more trouble than he had run from.

Run _away_ from.

As though he was scared.

As though he was a _coward_.

 _"Get back here – I'm not finished with you! I'll teach you to step up to me like that again you little bastard! I don't care who you think you are… Fine! Get out of here then, you cowardly little gobshite – you've another think coming if you think we'll be begging you to come home. No-one's going to be sad to see the back of you, that's for sure! Run boy - and keep running! Merry fucking Christmas to ya you little shite!"_

The words had echoed down the stairway and across the courtyard the same way they echoed in his head. He tried to remember beyond them. Had there been another voice? Higher, softer tones calling him back in from the dark, foreboding night and unforgiving cold.

He couldn't be sure.

He scoffed at himself for being so maudlin.

 _That's the Irish in you_ , another voice would mock him gently. _Buck up, boy. Get on with it._

And so he did. But he had been completely unprepared to make this journey. It was utterly stupid of him even to have attempted it. But sometimes, there was no other choice.

 _That isn't true, is it?_ he rebuked himself angrily. _You're just too bloody pig-headed._

He shivered, rubbing his knees and shins through his damp jeans. They were doing nothing to ward off the chill. The pair of woefully insufficient trainers and the ragged jacket he had procured from the clothing bins at the back of the supermarket hadn't fared any better once the snow had set in.

He had spent that first night in a homeless shelter, begged his way in after the doors had closed so long as he promised to be escorted home the next day. They had jotted down the fake details he had given them in a book which had – rather tactlessly, he had thought – "Runaways – Under 16s" scrawled across the front.

The cover name he had used was recognisable to anyone who knew him well enough, but those people were few and far between and he hadn't the energy to think up a new one out of the blue.

They had been nice enough, offered him food which he had eaten until he was so full he thought he would be sick. Then he had been lead to a poorly-heated hall and given a blanket and a sleeping mat to spend the night. The best spots had already been taken, of course. But he wasn't looking for the floorspace next to the heaters. What he needed was access to a quick escape, even if that meant sleeping in the draught coming under the fire-exit door.

He had slept for longer than he had intended, but the floor was still littered with all but the earliest of risers of the homeless community. He rolled the mat up and folded the blanket, replacing them where he had seen the staff-member get them from the night before, then made his way down the thin corridor to the front entrance.

People were talking on the other side of the door. Someone who was manning the front-desk was speaking in quiet, polite mumble, but it was the other voice which cut through the wood of the door and rooted him to the spot, chilling him worse than any winter wind could.

"Yeah, kid's about yay high. Hair kinda all shaved off short. Rocking the lil' thug look if you know what I mean? Thinks he's an army cadet – Ah ya seen him? Great -yeah the little sod ran away last night, got his mother and me worried sick he has… Yeah he's done it before but he's usually home by now… He's through there? That's great – yeah just show me where he is I'll take him home. Thank-you so much, mate. You've no idea what a relief it is - especially this close to Christmas and…"

He was running before the door to reception opened.

But it still wasn't quick enough.

He burst through the fire exit door as the one behind him opened. Clearly he had been spotted, for it wasn't only the indignant shouts of the sleeping people he leapt over that followed him to the far end of the hall, bursting into the alleyway without looking back.

" _Domonic_! You get your arse back here, son!"

Not his name. _Not_ his name, but _he_ didn't know that.

And he was _not_ his 'son'.

He ran hard, not slowing until the sound of the fire-alarm had stopped ringing in his ears, replaced instead by the deafening pounding of his own heart. His eyes stung, watering with what he could just about tell himself was lack of oxygen as he gasped fruitlessly, clinging to the edge of a skip in an alleyway he had run down. He no idea where he was, but that wasn't a problem. He could relocate and get his bearings later. The problem was…

His breath caught in his throat and he forced himself to calm down and breathe the thick, unpleasant air into his lungs until he could stand without leaning on the skip and see without spots appearing in his vision. How far had he run flat out for? A mile? Two? More? He didn't know. But it was still nothing compared to the distance the battered old Vauxhall could cover in the same amount of time. He was never usually this unfit. What was wrong with him? He wondered momentarily if he was coming down with an illness, but his immune system was so robust it seemed unlikely. More likely it was stress and exhaustion getting to him, but he refused to believe something so mundane could have an effect on his abilities.

He took a deep breath, calming himself. He would be ready to move again in a minute.

But then... why had he even bothered running?

He could back at the flat now, maybe even contemplating taking a shower and almost certainly being greeted by his mother. Of course the time between then and leaving the shelter was less appealing. Had he really run because he couldn't cope being clipped around the ear a few times?

Something inside him reared in protest at that thought, threatening to force him to make the walk all the way back and knock on that door. With any luck, he'd beat the car back to the flat and at least be able to spend an hour or so before facing his punishment for… for whatever it was that he supposedly deserved it for this time. An act of abject rebellion is what it had been seen as, most likely.

He walked out onto the main road, heading in the direction of the flat. It took him realising where he was before it occurred to him that there was another option. It was a much longer walk, sure. And the reception might be only-just more welcoming. But it was better than the alternative.

Or at least it had seemed it. Several tens of miles later – and most of those spent darting through the city and hiding in the hedgerows of country-lanes every time he heard a car coming – he wasn't so sure.

After spending a night huddled under a horse-blanket high up on the bales of a straw-barn on a farm he passed through, he had hoped he would make his destination before dark. But he had underestimated just how much the snow would hamper his usual hiking speed cross-country and had been forced to stumble back onto the barely-cleared roads. Luckily he had made it to the tarmac just before a snowstorm had hit. Had he still been in the fields when it had, he would have had no chance at finding the covered roads in the dark and he had barely yet mastered the art of building a safe snow-hole quickly enough to protect him from Mother Nature's wrath. The storm had eventually become so bad that he couldn't look in the direction he was walking for fear of losing an eye to a particularly vicious pellet of snow. That had forced him to stop behind a wall alongside a herd of miserable-looking sheep and wait for it to pass, by which time it was truly dark. He had no watch with which to tell the time, but it felt as though he had been sheltered there for hours and it made no difference, for he could see – in the not too distant distance, dim lights. They seemed high-up - on the top of a hill, perhaps. He thought they might be where he had been heading for, but he wasn't sure. Either way, it didn't matter anymore. If it wasn't, he was willing to beg his way into the warmth of any building, even if it meant being carted back home in the back of a police car the next day. He left the sheep, who had been too nervous to share the warmth of their thick fleeces with him, and stumbled towards the lights.

The hill felt as though it was out to kill him. He was concerned for some time that it seemed too steep and it may not at all have been the same hill he had run up and down for fun, sledged down in previous snowfalls and even attempted an ill-advised para-glide jump from the top of, but finally, _eventually_ , dark, ivy-clad walls loomed overhead. Some would say ominously, but to him they were a welcome sight, bearing promises of shelter and warmth and food, which could come later for all he cared. His stomach had been cramping from chewing on snow, but it was heat he really needed rather than food. This was not the coldest conditions he had ever been out in, but he was certainly the poorest equipped to tackle it than he had ever been before in a real situation. He fought his way through the drifts that had built up against the walls until he came to a chink in their stony defences. The side-gate. Screwed into the stony wall was a small, metal sign.

 _No Trespassing.  
No Cold Callers.  
No Loitering.  
Offenders will be prosecuted._

He could have laughed at the second line, had he not been fairly sure he would have dissolved into hysterical sobbing.

The gate was locked, of course, but his cold, numb fingers fumbled the code into the very-modern keypad which secured the ancient metal-bars. The first time his hand slipped and a red light warned him of the fact he had just two more attempts to input it correctly. He tried again, holding one hand with the other to stop the shaking. If he got it wrong twice more, not only would the gate lock him out permanently and sound the silent alarm, he would also cause a full-scale lock-down of the manor on top of the rest of the trouble he would be in when – if – they found him.

He almost laughed again, but at himself this time. It was just his luck, this. What a shitty end, to a shitty year. Although the next one on the horizon would be unlikely to be any better. That was of course, if he made it at all.

The light on the box blinked green and he opened the lock, thanking his lucky stars. His hand closed over the handle - he could see that - but if he closed his eyes, he would have no idea there was something in his hand. That was bad. He pushed the gate.

Although of course, it was stuck – blocked by a snowdrift – and he resorted to kicking it again and again with the last of his strength until the snow cleared the very minimum of space he required to slip through it. The gate swung back into its housing behind him with a gentle clang which echoed, muffled by the snow, across the silent gardens.

He staggered closer to the main building some hundred metres away, knowing exactly where he was heading for, despite the path being invisible under the icy blanket. Somewhere through the freezing layer of snow, grit crunched beneath his trainers. He had long since given up pining for his best pair of boots in their stead, although he was almost certain had he been wearing them he would not have slipped as he did when one foot strayed off the gravelly path onto the slippery permafrost covering the grass.

He fell heavily, hands and knees breaking his fall onto the solid floor so painfully to the frozen flesh that he let out a choked yelp of pain and lay flat in the snow. He lay there for what could have been minutes rather than seconds, the last of his body-heat working against him as snow melted into his already damp clothing, chilling whatever warmth was left on his skin. Eventually, the persistent protests of some part of him that was not ready to give up entirely, got through to him and he raised his head. The door was perhaps ten metres away now. He had not come all this way just to lie down in the snow and die this close to his goal. If he was going to have done that, he should have done it hours ago and saved himself the trouble of making it this far.

Somehow, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, crawling forward army-style until he could plant his knee and then his feet on the gravel and push himself to a standing position. The first step he took was the hardest. The second and third followed more quickly. The fourth he slipped again and it took all of his balance to stay standing. He summoned up the dregs of his willpower not to just fall down into snow once more and stay there, waiting to be found the next morning, in whatever condition he may be in by then. Five steps. Six. Seven… Eight, nine and ten were all over in a rush as suddenly he was pressed against the door, sure he could feel the warmth permeating the wood. He slid down it, pushing himself against his goal. The code would have been changed since he was last here and he didn't have the accompanying key, but he could still try knocking.

 _Try knocking?_

The manor was huge.

Why had he not thought his plan through all the way to the end before he had set off away from the relative safety of the homeless shelter. Before he had run off from a car-ride back to a warm flat with a hot shower and food…

He raised a shaking arm. He could no longer feel his hands, so he beat a numb fist against the wood until his already-raw knuckles bled and his arm would obey him no more. He didn't mean to fall asleep. He knew he shouldn't. But he must have, for the next thing he knew was a blinding light and a burst of heat – beautiful warmth – flooding over him and something irresistibly strong pulling him upwards, away from the cold stone step and the snow, calling his name… If this was what dying was like, he didn't have the strength left to care.

* * *

The Major opened the kitchen door cautiously, all the same. It didn't pay to end up shot because you assumed something. The action made an ass of you and me, after all, as Ko would tell you. It also made corpses of people more often than he cared to think about...

But the door was barely open and he had barely given the darkness a glance to ensure the garden was empty, when he threw caution to the wind and dropped to his knees, holstering his gun in favour of grabbing the slumped form on the doorstep.

Instant recognition made him swear, shaking the limp, unresisting shoulders and tilting the head to expose the pale throat, searching for the jerking movement of a pulse under the skin, thumbing an eyelid back… the pupil cowered lazily against the light. He was alive at least. But not by much.

The Major called the boy's name sharply and patted his cheek no-less firmly, but to no response. He swore again under his breath and lifted the lad up off the snow as easily as he hefted the bags of coal for the fire. He kicked the door shut behind him, heedless of the heavy bang that would probably alert his father. Even the short amount of time it had been open had been enough to raise the hairs all over his body and make his muscles clench with the threat of a shiver. _His._ He who did not chill easily. He who was _trained_ not to chill easily.

Just like this boy.

He lifted the limp body onto the kitchen table and thrust his hand roughly down the front of the thin jumper it was woefully clad in. The skin was cold and clammy under his palm. The Major was fairly sure he'd checked genuine dead bodies with more heat left in them than that. Wasting no time, he wrenched open a cupboard and grabbed a couple of old towels, generally used for drying the floor when people trudged through in their snow-covered boots or the game-keeper's dogs found their way into the kitchen – much to the chagrin of the head-chef.

He flung the towels over his shoulders and picked the boy up again. He hadn't moved since he had placed him down on the large, wooden table and he was worryingly lifeless in his arms. Careful not to hit the boy's loose limbs off anything, he strode directly to the drying room the Butlers used for their kit, shifting his cargo onto his shoulder to unlock the door and kicking it open, using his elbow to flick the switch and urge the large, fan-assisted heaters into life. The door closed behind them, thudding gently onto its air-tight seals. The room would heat up. It would have to be soon enough – there was nowhere for the heat to escape. He transferred his precious cargo to the wooden bench in the middle of the room – normally used as a place to perch whilst pulling off mud-clad boots – and set to work.

The boy mumbled slightly as he peeled off the sodden clothing and all-but-whimpered as he rubbed deathly-pale skin roughly with the smaller of the towels, focussing on his chest and torso firstly, then hauling him forward to scrub at his back.

The dark pattern of bruising made him pause. His chest had a few scrapes, but the boy's back was a canvas of abuse, ribs sticking out far too starkly for The Major's liking. _How did he get like this?_

It certainly wouldn't be under the care of Madam Ko. Although her training regimes were, admittedly, barely below brutal, she kept her acolytes in peak physical condition to cope with them. The Siberia expedition was certainly an excuse for _some_ weight loss, but he had been home in Ireland for at least a fortnight. In that time he should have been carb-binging to make up for the loss and undertaking some light training. Nothing that would leave him in a state like _this_.

"What the hell happened to you?" he murmured, renewing his efforts more gently.

The bruises looked fresh and evidently they were painful, for at one point, his patient thrashed at him so violently that The Major was forced to hold him still, much to the boy's slurred protests and weak, but well-aimed blows. Holding him one-armed, he unzipped the front of his own jacket and sat down, hauling the lad with him.

"Hush now. Calm down, I gotcha," he said, pulling him closer so that the boy's bare back pressed against the hot skin of his broad chest. "I've got you, Dom."

* * *

 **So... simultaneously throwing our favourite little Butler into peril whilst this fic is off to a slow and steady start.**

 **For DaFan, who asked about my writing techniques in a review of the snippet in Lil Rems: As I've mentioned to a few of you, all of my fics are 100% pre-written before I even set out to post. Sometimes that's a skeleton plot, sometimes that's pretty damn detailed and done. One thing for sure, I always polish it before I post it. As for writing process: Get Started. That's my top tip. Sounds daft, but what I mean is: write the bit that's been going around your head. If it's not the first part, it doesn't matter. That just gives you something to write towards. If it is the first part, great - you've started how you mean to go on. Get a 'skeleton-plot' down. Even if it's just bullet points that act as reminders like 'Oh yeah - I was going to put that...' - Think about your story every second you get. Waiting for the bus. On your lunch break. Just before you go to bed. I plot in my head all the time, so by the time I get to typing it the only frustration is that my hands can't type fast enough and I can't find the *exact* words to translate the virtual film in my head into something you can all read and then watch a film of in your own heads. If I ever gets stuck or lose inspiration or motivation I just take a break from it for a while. Leave myself some notes and/or a skeleton plot and then ignore it for a bit. Writing inspiration will come back. It just wanders off sometimes. Sometimes it wanders back even better than before. So don't worry about it if you get "Writer's Block" - just stop trying to force-write and go forget about it for a bit. Best thing about that is coming back to a fic and going "I love this bit!" and almost getting a reader's perspective on it, which can give you even more encouragement. In fact, even if you finish a fic, it is a good idea to leave it alone for a bit then come back to it because your read-through and edit will turn up a load more mistakes and plot-holes when you've had some time away from your writing. So yeah. Wolfy's Writing Process Tips in bullet points: Get started. Plot it out roughly. Think and mentally play it out in your head all the time. Write it up. Leave it alone and come back to it a while later (sometimes for me that can be months or even more!). Read through. Polish. Post. Cross fingers for reviews... And really, that is about it! *crosses fingers***

 **I hope you're excited about where this is going - because I am! You have no idea how much I smile when I wake up and have 13 email notifications... and only two of them are trying to get me to buy stuff. And then every day getting a few buzzes with very kind words about my work... It's awesome. Thank-you so much :)**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

 **14/01/16**


	3. Chapter 2: The Brink

**Thanks to: jayjthebigmouth, writethatwrong, Shadow914, Me, Steinbock, P.S. Sword, HolidayBoredom, Kath, Alchemechanist and Readergirl99 for the brilliantly encouraging reviews.  
** **And thanks to: Alchemechanist for the follow and Jolinnn for the follow and fave.  
Really excited that this fic has a ten review per chapter average already. You guys are the best :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNING: Major Gruff!Fluff (*pun intended*) so I hope you all like a bit of that :)**

 **Also, please excuse any botched medical 'facts'. Hypothermia I do have a bit of knowledge on to be honest, but in any case I promise to do my best when it comes to details. Saying that, my main resources are personal experience and filling in the blanks with Googled info... haha** **Should be fine, but just thought I'd mention it.**

 **Enjoy :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWO: The Brink**

 _ **A point at which something, typically unwelcome, is about to happen.**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

It was a relief when the shivering started.

The Major had worried the boy was too far gone for him to fix here at the manor. Perhaps too far gone to fix at all. But the kid was a Butler by blood and if nothing else, he was a tough little sod.

Gently, explaining what he was doing in a low, calm voice the whole time, he managed to pull off the boy's trainers, trousers and the rest of his wet clothes and begin carefully drying the rest of him with a towel. The last thing he needed was to force the cool blood from his legs back to his warming torso so quickly that it sent him into shock, but the damp materials were sapping heat faster than he could supply it. The boy kept trying to speak but the words came out as incoherent mumblings and his teeth were chattering so much by then that he bit his own tongue, blood trickling into the grooves between his teeth.

"Alright, alright - save it. You can explain later," The Major said, extracting himself from the hoodie carefully and almost tying the arms around his nephew as he laid the kid down, with his knees tucked up into his chest, under one of the heaters. He covered any exposed skin with the drier of the towels. "Don't move. I'm coming back with a drink."

It was uncertain whether the boy was capable of comprehending what he was saying, but he didn't seem to be in a position to be doing much more than breathing anyway.

The kettle took an agonisingly long time to boil, but eventually he had a flask and two mugs of strong hot-chocolate. He tucked a medical kit under his arm as he left the kitchen and returned to the drying room.

Domovoi hadn't moved, although for once, it was unlikely that that was from obedience. The Major unzipped the medi-kit, tearing the plastic wrap off a rudimentary, stick-on thermometer and stuck it to the boy's throat over his lazily pulsing jugular. The shivering was only coming in short, sudden, severe bouts and the steadily revealing numbers on the thermometer stopped at 31 degrees Celsius.

It was just as serious as he'd feared.

"OK kiddo, up we get," he said firmly, hoisting him up by the armpits into a slumped sitting position. Abandoning the drinks for now, he knelt in front of him and tugged the boy's freezing-cold hands through the sleeves of the over-sized jumper. From there, he could grip them in his own warm paws and move his arms back and forth. _'Choo-choo train'_ , you were supposed to call it with kids. But Domovoi was no ordinary kid. "You know the drill. Come on now, who am I?"

Dom's eyes rolled front and centre, but he looked at him in the unfocussed, bleary way of a hypothermic. It wasn't the first time he had gotten rather too cold than The Major would be telling the boy's mother about, but at least one of those had been after a controlled ice-swim and a quick four mile jog had soon got his blood pumping warm again. God only knew how long he had been _this_ cold for this time.

"Dom, look at me. _Look at me_. That's it. Focus. _Focus_. Good. Who am I?"

"Not… Paul…" he mumbled, frowning and trying to pull his arm back. The Major let him before pulling it forward again. The more gentle movement he could get out of him, the more he could raise his body temperature without risking the sudden 'after-drop' of cold extremity blood rushing back to the heart. He had not just nursed the boy back from the brink to give him a massive cardiac arrest now.

"No, I didn't ask who I _wasn't_. I asked who I _am_. Who am I, Dom?"

Paul was Domovoi's mother's boyfriend. Technically, the boy was right, but it was worrying that he hadn't recognised him straight off.

 _"'N-cull,"_ he slurred.

"Excellent. Good boy. And where are we?"

The effort was clear on his face, but after a few seconds he said, rather quizzically; "'Cadmy?"

"No, not The Academy. Try again."

"Munner?" he mumbled.

"Good," The Major tried to smile reassuringly. It was not one of his talents. Nobody trained him to be reassuring in any other way than utterly disassembling any threat put in front of him. Or rather, made the rather idiotic decision to put itself in his path. And even his disabling of danger tended to cause fear more often than calm, even for those he was protecting. The fact the boy had guessed the manor did not do much to measure his level of consciousness. The main place they saw eachother was the manor.

The thermometer crept up another half a degree.

"Can you sit up by yourself?" he asked.

Dom nodded numbly, shivering violently now. He could sit up unaided, but it was an effort. Every slight sway had him lurching to rebalance, gripping the edge of the bench as though the world was tilting around him. The Major glanced around the room, deciding that a wall would be a good asset about now.

"Alright, we're moving over here. Can you walk if I hold you up?"

Again he nodded, but his legs disagreed and The Major resorted to all-but carrying him again, bare feet dragging along the floor, before they could make the four steps to the bench that ran along the wall. He leant him against it as he retrieved the mugs, filling them from the flask of near-boiling liquid and sitting down next to his nephew.

"Let's get some fluids into you. Here, sip this."

He moved closer until the boy was jammed in an approximation of an upright position between one of the wooden lockers and his uncle's broad shoulder. He pressed the warm cup into Dom's hands and held the majority of the weight of it, helping him drink as the liquid sloshed around in conjunction with his shivering. Fairly predictably, he coughed and spluttered his way through the first few sips, but managed to at least drain half a mug. Colour returned to his cheeks slowly, the thermometer tracking the progress of the warm liquid. Once it hit 35, The Major spoke again.

"When did you last eat?"

Dom gave a gesture somewhere between a shrug and a shake of his head.

"Has it been hours – " – he held up one hand – " – or days?" he asked, holding up the other.

Dom pawed at the second-raised hand. He was shaking so hard he felt like he was about to throw up the small cup of sustenance he'd just drunk, but the thought of food renewed the gnawing in his stomach.

The Major gritted his teeth. Later he would ask what had made the boy be so foolhardy. Now was not the time for chastisement.

"Right. Well if I make you some grub, can you get yourself showered?"

Dom nodded and almost seemed embarrassed that his uncle had thought he might need help with that. But Butlers didn't believe in embarrassment and had he been a few years younger The Major would probably have just dunked him in a tub and scrubbed him down himself.

"Stand up, then," he said, doing so himself and offering a hand. Dom thought about ignoring the offer for help, but that backfired and he ended up snatching at it to stop himself from falling. His grip was strong enough to subdue some of the concern in The Major's mind, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. The fingers that coiled themselves tightly around his own were still icy cold and the boy was shaking so hard he could barely stand still. He looked closely at his nephew's hands. They were blotchy in places, but he was fairly certain they'd avoided any serious frostbite. A blessing – for losing a fingertip could be prospect-changing career-wise for the lad.

The lights in the room seemed incredibly bright after the long nights he had spent outside and Dom squinted against the glare. His legs felt like they were full of sand; shifting, unstable pillars, as heavy as his head. His uncle half-guided, half-hauled him to the shower room that connected to the drying room by a wooden door and he held onto the towel rail, arm trembling with the effort as The Major ran the water up to temperature. Thankfully, this room was heated alongside the drying room. Even so, the slight dip in air temperature was enough to renew Dom's violent teeth-chattering once more.

"Right, in you get," The Major said, prying his hand off the towel rail and unzipping the hoodie. The loss of the warm shield was almost painful and there was a second or two of actual pain when The Major also ripped the stick-on thermometer from his throat. "I'll be in the kitchen. Stay in here until I come back. I'll bring you some stuff to get changed into. If you're still dizzy, sit down. I don't want you falling through the glass screen, understood?"

Dom made it clear that his affirming not was not merely a large shiver and, shrugging the towel from around his middle, climbed into the steam-filled glass box that was the shower. His uncle took a second to make sure he didn't look likely to keel over in the next minute, then left.

The water seemed painfully hot at first and his skin itched with the sudden change from freezing to boiling. He bit down on the back of his hand to stop himself from crying out and kept the other firmly clamped onto the rail screwed into the wall. Slowly but surely his body adjusted to the water and he leant forward into the cascade of droplets, letting them run over his back, neck and then face. His breath came in hitches as he breathed in the hyper-humidified air and he kept his face upturned against the spray from the shower so he could convince himself it was only water passing over his cheeks. Anything else would be a sign of weakness, wouldn't it? He did indeed feel dizzy, but the tiles were cold to touch and his only other option was to brace himself between the shower rail and the water-pipe – and that was scalding. He didn't know how long he'd been stood there for, but given that his uncle would likely be back soon and he didn't want to be found curled up in the shower-tray, he didn't dare to sit down in case his legs couldn't get him back up again. All his muscles and strength had deserted him. The concept scared him. He was supposed to be invincible.

 _Not yet,_ a voice in his head said quietly. _You're just learning. In training. One day you'll be like Uncle and Pa._

There was a moment when he didn't think anything at all other than how hot the shower water was.

And then.

 _Shit_. _Uncle and Pa._

Now _there_ was two people he'd have to justify himself to in the not too distant future.

He felt guilty that he was already contemplating what tale he could spin to the men about how exactly he'd ended up in this state and why he was here and not back at the flat with his mother and _potential_ step-father. He refused to call him anything else until his mother made a decision on that front. The shudder that ran through him at both of those thoughts was not of cold.

Before he could dwell too much on it, his true father-figure returned, brusquely offering him a very large, warm, dry towel and pointing out a pile of clothing perched on the closed seat of the toilet.

It had been a fair few weeks since he had last seen his uncle, yet he wondered how exactly he had failed to remember that lying to the man would be a pointless exercise.

It was a wrench to turn off the taps and step out of the shower, but the towel was not a poor trade and he dried himself carefully before he pulled on the clothes that had been laid out for him. The t-shirt and joggers he recognised as from his own closet upstairs, but the jumper was new and a little too big. He wondered if it was Artemis's, but the material was designed for outdoor use and the older boy rarely ventured far from civilisation. Nor was he considerably bigger than the young Butler, despite the half-decade age gap between the two boys. He left the bathroom for the warm, dry air of the drying room, where he had barely begun to collect up the discarded damp clothing he could not recall having taken off, when The Major appeared with a bowl of something steaming.

"I'll get those. Here, eat up."

Dom didn't bother asking what was in it. He was grateful to have permission to stop stooping up and down for it was making his head spin and besides, the stew would be some combination of high-carb food he was too hungry to care about the origins of. He took the bowl, scarfing a spoonful from the edge of the bowl were the liquid would be coolest.

"How are your hands? Feet? Any frostbite?"

Dom shook his head slowly, swilling the broth around his mouth. The flavour was strong, undiluted by the temperature of the dish as was so often common with super-heated food. He closed his eyes, breathing in the steam deeply before shovelling some solid component of the meal into his mouth and chewing quickly and swallowing it too soon. It wedged in his throat, but he was far too hungry to choke it back up and he washed it down determinedly with the leftovers in one of the mugs of hot chocolate.

"Don't rush it. I don't want you throwing it back up all over the place," The Major warned, chucking the clothes and used towels into a washing basket in the corner of the room.

Dom heeded his advice and ate more slowly, savouring the taste of the well-seasoned pasta, potatoes and whatever else had gone into the swiftly prepared stew. When he had finished, The Major took the bowl and sat opposite him, handing a fresh mug of hot chocolate, straight from the flask.

"This is hotter. Careful."

Dom nodded in understanding, wrapping his hands around the mug and resting his bottom lip on the edge, his eyelids drooping again. Sleep, now, was the only thing he needed.

"Now. I'm not going to ask you immediately, but I want a full explanation for how you ended up huddled in the tradesman's doorway like a lost vagrant," The Major continued, eyeing him carefully for a response. "And don't give me any of your bullshit, understood?"

"Yes 'ncle," he answered quietly, sipping the incredibly sweet liquid carefully. It was still _almost_ too hot to drink, but he knocked it back gratefully all the same.

"Good lad. Come on, now - upstairs. I want you to sleep this off. A full night. No limit. Understood?"

A nod - albeit 'semi-concious bob of the head' suited the motion better as a description.

"You sleep until you wake up and then you damn well go to sleep again, boy. Do you hear me?"

Another nod - with more purpose. As tired as he was, he recognised an order when he heard one.

"I'll give you a full medical when you've rested, but I think we caught you before any damage was done."

Dom nodded numbly one more time, trying not to think of who might have found him – and in what state – in the morning had his uncle not heard him and woken up.

They climbed the stairs together. For the younger, it was a mountainous effort and he leant a little more heavily than he would have liked on the banister rail. The elder watched him as avidly as he would a charge, hands surreptitiously ready to shoot out a steadying nudge should he require it. But they made it to the top and along the corridor to the room Domovoi used for the duration of his stays at Fowl Manor without incident. Although upon reaching his destination, the boy barely even had the energy to fall into bed and certainly couldn't summon the resolve to shun his uncle for tucking the thick blanket around him and turning off his light for him.

"Get some rest, boy," The Major said, pausing and then – after a moment – scarfing a hand over the short crop of hair on his nephew's head, thumb pausing on his forehead for a moment with a barely-audible sigh.

Dom thought he heard the door open and wished he could summon the energy to mumble some sort of thanks. But before he could even try, he had been drawn into the deep abyss of sleep.

It wasn't to be peaceful.

Nightmares plagued his rest.

Dark giants pursued him through swirling snowstorms, calling after him in echoing, wind-like screams as he stumbled through impossibly viscous air…

He awoke some indiscernible amount of time later, when he thought he heard the door opening again. But, when he forced his eyes open, he was alone in the room. Alone, but for a roll-mat laid out on the floor. His sleep-addled brain attempted to ponder this, but fatigue overruled the thought process, holding onto the last order he had been given before he'd all-but passed out.

 _You sleep until you wake up and then you damn well go to sleep again, boy. Do you hear me?_

"Yes Uncle, I hear you," he answered - possibly out-loud, but he couldn't be sure.

His eyes closed again and this time he slept free of dreams.

* * *

 **So, there we are. On the brink of a difficult conversation for the lads.**

 **It's snowing here - a rarity, so I thought I'd post this now... any excuse, really haha**

 **If you liked the gruff!fluff, there will be more, don't worry! If you didn't like it, this fic is not 100% gruff!fluff, don't worry! Haha :)**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	4. Chapter 3: Scrutiny

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, Write that wrong, Sana Lama Samaha, Readergirl99, Steinbock, Alchemechanist, P.S. Sword, Kath, Me and HolidayBoredom for the honest reviews.  
** **You guys sure have stamina keeping up the comments with my overly-speedy posting rate haha**

 **And thanks to: Holly-Rose-Fowl-Casson for the follow and blueeyes1991 for the fave.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNING: _More_ gruff!fluff. On second glance, the next few chapters are rather heavy on it... haha**

 **EXTRA, EXTRA WARNING: A short cameo of Grandpa Butler.** **He's awesome, so I'm pretty damn sure you're all going to love him. He's also going to appear a bit more later, so if you do like him, let him know :)**

 **This is a longer chapter - it actually half-again increases the length of the fic so far, but sometimes that's just how it cuts. Not much action but please bear with. That'll come later on, I promise :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3: Scrutiny**

 ** _Critical observation; a close examination_**

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

The Major had left his nephew's room quietly. If it hadn't been for the steady, even breathing lifting and dropping the blanket quietly, he'd have been tempted to check for a pulse. Normally, the slightest disturbance would wake a Butler – even a young one. But the lad looked as though he hadn't slept that deeply for weeks. The Major remembered the feeling of coming back from a mission where danger was never more than a too-long-blink away. Finally being able to close your eyes and relinquish your grip on consciousness without the threat of never regaining it again… There was no other feeling like it. He smiled a little. The boy felt safe here. And so he should.

He had thought about leaving the boy alone once he'd made sure he wasn't likely to get up again for a few hours, but some overprotective sector of his mind had stubbornly insisted he spend the short remainder of the night laid down next to his bed on the roll-mat he had taken from the boy's kit-cupboard. He lay on the thin layer, staring up at the ceiling. He was trained to fall asleep as quickly as possible, but tonight, for the first time in years, lying there listening to the dully-rattling breathing of his nephew, he found it difficult.

It had been less than two hours later that he had been forced to get up to attend to his duties as Artemis's bodyguard. He doubted he had slept more than minutes of it.

He decided to forgo his usual training regime, trudging back along the chilly corridor to his room, rather than straight to the gym. He did not, of course, escape bumping into his father.

"For heaven's sake Myles; the new heating system may be excessive, but it isn't _that_ warm," his father said dryly. "Put a shirt on, boy, before you take somebody's eye out."

"Oh hardy-ha," The Major grumbled, folding his massive forearms over his bare chest. He hadn't bothered to get another shirt after he had wrapped Domovoi in his hoodie. Then again, he _had_ intended to go straight back to bed after checking the damn cameras…

"Care to enlighten me as to why you're wandering the hallways half-naked at this fine hour of the morning?" the current 'Butler' of the manor asked. "Been _visiting_ a lucky someone, have you?"

His father was mocking him. He knew his son was far too professional for those sorts of antics. The Major ground his teeth slightly all the same. He had been hoping to discuss the _real_ reason for his disturbed night with his father over breakfast; rather than in a corridor, where the conversation would surely be short and non-explanatory. He would also have preferred to get the facts straight himself first. But that couldn't be helped.

"Don't grind your teeth like that boy," his father said, sighing through his nose. "And spit it out. What is it? Don't think I didn't hear you galumphing around the corridors, slamming doors last night."

So he _had_ heard. And he hadn't bothered to get up. The Major didn't know whether it was an insult or a compliment. Apparently, his father trusted him - or at least his abilities - enough to not follow him downstairs. Then again, if he had been killed by some elite assassin... He gave a mental snort of derision. He could see why his father hadn't bothered getting up.

"Dom turned up last night," The Major told him succinctly.

"Our Dom?" Butler raised his eyebrows.

"Aye, Junior – who else?" his son nodded. "About zero-three-hundred and in a bad way. He's lucky I heard him."

"And how is he now?"

"Alive and warm at least. It was close though," The Major said, trying to sound blasé and failing miserably – or at least to his father's trained eye. "At one point, I thought I wouldn't be able to… that maybe I'd have to…"

"But you sorted him out," his father interrupted, not berating his son not for coming to him for help. The end result informed him his judgement that his assistance had not been required on this occasion had been correct. "So there's no need for that."

The Major nodded numbly, shaking the feeling that he would be having many a disturbed night's sleep over the memory of his nephew's impossibly pale face. The goosebumps covering his skin intensified at the image.

"Good. Any idea what he was doing?" his father asked.

"Not exactly. I can guess, but I've told him I'll question him later when I check him over. Don't think he got any frostbite, but best to be safe."

"Indeed," Butler nodded. "Well. Take ten to get yourself sorted. I'll see you in the kitchen."

"Thanks, Pa," Myles said, squeezing the skin of his brow together in one hand tiredly.

"Don't dwell on it, son. Get on with it."

The eldest Butler clapped him heavily on the shoulder and headed down the stairs without him.

* * *

The next time he woke, Domovoi felt more alert – if a little groggy. He sat up cautiously and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. His besocked toes brushed the carpet and it took some effort to climb off the mattress. He stood almost immediately on a roll-mat with his next step and jerked in surprise at the sudden change in floor-consistency under his feet. He wondered why it was there. He certainly would not have been allowed to leave it lying around last time he had been here.

He realised, with a dull jolt of surprise, that his uncle must have spent the rest of the night lying next to his bed. He hadn't been that bad, had he? Dom tried to remember - couldn't – and realised that was probably an indicator in itself of how bad a condition he had been in.

He crossed the room and opened the curtains, not surprised to see that the sun had already reached its low midwinter peak and was halfway through its journey steadily back to the horizon. He must have slept for at least twelve hours. He turned to check the time on the alarm clock on his bedside table and saw there was a glass of water set next to it. Suddenly thirsty, he returned to the bed and picked it up, peeling off a piece of paper that had stuck to the bottom of it with condensation.

 _DRINK UP, THEN COME FIND ME._ – was scrawled in his Uncle's blocky handwriting – thick, automatic capitals after years of filling in 'bloody paperwork forms', as he called them. The water was room-temperature, but his stomach shuddered with the chill of it and he quickly opened a drawer to search for something to put on.

He changed into clothes that would be deemed more acceptable for walking around the manor – keeping the fleece, for it was already very warm and he was loath to part with it – and headed out of his room. The air in the manor was strangely tepid and he wondered if his sense of temperature had been permanently distorted by his escapades of the previous three days – not to mention the month or so before that.

He passed a maid in the hallway and asked her if she had seen his uncle.

"Could try the gym. Master Artemis has a piano lesson, so he's not with him," she told him. She stopped speaking and frowned slightly at him. "I didn't know you were here."

"I wasn't," he said evasively. "Cheers."

The maid shook her head. All the Butlers seemed almost alien, but it had been interesting to learn that it started at such a young age. Strange though – to think this child, this boy, would one day grow up to be one of the most dangerous men in the world. Especially if his uncle and grandfather had anything to do with it. Sure, Master Artemis dragged the kid around like a dog on a chain, but she couldn't help comparing the situation to one of those people who thought it would be cool to raise a tiger cub and keep it tame as a pet. Only for it to grow into a deadly predator. She laughed at herself. He was just a boy. No more dangerous than any other – and thankfully much less obnoxious than most.

Domovoi headed for the gym, his feet taking him automatically and leaving his brain to come up with more and more wild stories to try to fob his uncle off with. By the time he pulled on the handle to the dojo, he had already realised that the truth was all the man was going to accept this time. He had been avoiding the subject for months - years even - now.

He let the door close a little more heavily than he usually would, announcing his arrival to his uncle, in case the man was deep into a _kata_ or meditation and was startled by his sudden appearance. Startling his uncle was about as dangerous as it was unlikely, but it didn't pay to not take precautions. With a deep breath, he walked into the open expanse of the training ring.

His uncle was sat, straight-backed and cross-legged on the floor, coated in a thin sheen of sweat that reflected the florescent lighting overhead, highlighting the definition of his dormant muscles and the more-than-occasional scar that pocked the surface of his skin like fissures and features in a rock-face.

Domovoi cleared his throat lightly, in case he still hadn't been heard. More than likely he had already disturbed the man's thoughts, but he didn't like to take chances.

 _Other than the chance you took trekking across the country in a snowstorm?_ he berated himself.

"How are you feeling?" The Major rumbled lowly, opening his eyes slowly and stretching. Some well-used joint in his body popped loudly and he grimaced; he was not ready to start getting old just yet.

"Better," his nephew nodded.

"Well," the man ' _hmmph_ -ed'. "I would be mightily concerned if you were feeling any _worse_."

Domovoi cringed. His uncle seemed displeased. But mostly, The Major seemed the particular variety of _displeased_ which was closely associated with people doing something he deemed utterly stupid. Especially if he thought it was unlike them. _Disappointment_. Dom supposed he deserved it.

"Stand there, front and centre," The Major ordered, getting to his feet much more smoothly than his size and frame would suggest he could, gesturing for his nephew to hold up his arms.

Domovoi had momentarily forgotten that the question 'how are you feeling?', when posed by someone such as his uncle, required not a general dismissal, but a full body stat-check.

"I'm not injured or anything," he assured him, raising his arms to shoulder level. "No twists, breaks or pulls. Just… normal amounts of muscle stiffness and stuff. Taking into account… you know."

"I'm not sure I do ' _know_ ', actually. And don't say 'and stuff', it makes you sound incompetent," The Major chastised him, running his hands down first one arm, then the next, bending the joints and watching, hawk-like, for any signs of discomfort. If the boy wasn't going to tell him the truth, he was going to treat him like an animal that _couldn't_ tell him what was wrong, rather than _wouldn't_. His body would reveal what his mind was unwilling to. "You know full well the details required, don't shorthand them when I'm asking for a full report. Flex."

Domovoi jumped slightly and The Major returned to the muscle he'd just asked to be used.

"Did that hurt?"

Dom shook his head. "No. Just… just a cramp. It's gone now."

The Major's eyes were boring into his skull, but Dom stubbornly kept his gaze away.

"I'm not working against you here," he said sternly, locking his fingers around the boy's wrists. "And I'd appreciate it if you showed me the same courtesy. Pull."

"Yessir," Domovoi mumbled, pulling against the pressure his uncle placed on his clenched fist, first one, then the other.

The Major nodded, satisfied there was nothing wrong with his arms. He was tempted to make him remove his fleeced top to take another look at those bruises, but decided to test how far the lad was willing to go to try to deceive him. He moved onto his legs, asking for some simple movements before squeezing a firm hand down each shin. The boy's nostrils flared on the left one, indicating yet more bruising, but other than that, he appeared to have escaped the common snow-trekking injuries of a sprained ankle or twisted knee.

"Alright, yes or no answers only," he said, eyeing his face piercingly. "Frostbite?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"No."

"Fever?"

"No."

"Nausea?"

"No."

"Movement loss?"

"No."

"Bruising?"

"… No."

Domovoi knew he hadn't answered that last one quick enough and he wondered if he had even wanted to keep his uncle off the scent at all.

"Don't lie to me, boy," The Major said in a neutral tone. "This time, it is quite literally written all over your face."

Dom stared at the floor. He hadn't looked in the mirror for a few days, but he was imagining from the tenderness around his jaw and left eye-socket that he looked a state.

"And unless you are having a severe memory lapse from last night," The Major continued. "You should already know I saw evidence to the contrary. Your back looks like a chequers board. Sit."

Domovoi shrugged, sinking slowly onto the bench – and not, The Major noticed, leaning the aforementioned damage against the wall.

"Care to tell me where you got them?"

"Rugby and stuff," the young Butler said, forgetting the previous chastisement for the phrase.

The Major snorted dismissively. "' _Rugby and stuff_ 'indeed. They're fighting bruises, boy. I of all people know that. And they're not from sports training. Nor the Academy. You've been home for two weeks, correct?"

The boy nodded glumly.

"And in that time I can't imagine you actually bothered to finish the school term. So rugby's out of the question. Not that you'd get bruises like that unless you were trampled by an entire scrum."

"I did go back to that shitty civvy school for a fortnight," Domovoi argued sullenly.

"And did you get into any fights?"

He said nothing.

" _Boy._ "

It wasn't a question.

"Alright! Yes. I did, OK? They're all idiots I won't take shit lying down."

" _Now_ we're getting somewhere," The Major said, sitting down on the bench next to his nephew. It creaked gently, but that was the only sound bar their voices that marred the silence of the gym. "But you're not telling me some high school chumps managed to inflict that on you. And if you are, you are in serious need some remedial self-defence lessons."

Domovoi had been caught out and he knew it. He couldn't very well insist that it had been a bunch of kids beating him up without admitting he was… incapable. _Weak,_ even. He stayed stubbornly silent.

The Major ground his teeth. _Goddammit_ if the boy wasn't _just_ as stubborn father.

 _And his uncle_ , a voice in his head pointed out wryly. He chose to ignore it.

"Dom. Come on. Talk to me," The Major rested a hand almost tentatively on his nephew's shoulder.

"I should tell my mam that I'm here. She'll be worried," Domovoi said, standing. The Major's hand dropped off his shoulder, frustrated. "I didn't exactly tell her where I was going."

"And _why_ exactly that is, is what I want you to tell me."

The Major was ready for him. If the lad ran off now and he'd lose any ground he'd managed to scrape today. The boy said nothing and took a step in denial, intent on leaving.

" _Domovoi_ …" he growled warningly, snapping out a hand to grab his nephew's wrist and stop him leaving. He rarely used the boy's full name and it was a sure caution that he was deadly serious.

"Sorry!"

The word had leapt out of the boy's mouth and he could no more stop it than he could stop the automatic flinch and the sharp intake of breath at a large hand coming his way quickly and unexpectedly, or the arm that flew up to block the 'attack'.

The Major's eyes flashed with anger, but it wasn't directed at the boy before him. His hand had easily caught the token attempt at a counter-attack and he could almost feel the tingle of adrenalin under the boy's skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Dom," he said, just as firmly as he was gripping his nephew's clenched fist in his own gigantic paw.

The boy shook his head, refusing eye-contact, although what he was denying The Major couldn't be sure.

"And anyone who made you feel like that is soon going to be feeling rather sorry themselves," he said quietly. "Now I don't want to drag it out of you, but you and I are going to talk about this..."

"No! I'm fine. I mean, it's nothing. There isn't anything to talk about," the young Butler insisted, pulling back. The Major kept a tight grip, eyeing him seriously.

"I trust you would rather give me the truth than have me jump to the wrong conclusions, correct?"

Domovoi was fairly sure his uncle had already jumped to the _right_ conclusion, but he nodded slowly all the same.

"I'm not asking you for every detail. I just want to know what happened – what's _happening –_ to you. Alright?"

Domovoi felt like he needed asking those questions again. _Nausea? Yes._ It was very much _not_ alright.

"I'm not mad at you, boy," The Major said, almost softly.

Dom wanted to tell him it wasn't _his_ anger he was concerned about. If Paul found out he had gone to his _uncle_ of all people…

"I… I'm concerned, ok?" the large, ordinarily hard-hearted man admitted.

Dom's eyebrows shot up. _Concerned_ was not normally a word his uncle associated with anything that didn't have wheels or a trigger.

"Don't look at me like that, you sarky little sod," The Major's lips twisted into a smirk. "Would you like me to continue on to say how you're my favourite nephew, my flesh and blood and that I care about you deeply and all that shite?"

"I'm your _only_ nephew," Dom said quietly, his mouth twitching slightly in amusement as his uncle finally let his hand drop.

"Exactly. And I don't think you'd enjoy hearing about how I'm hell-bound to protecting your dear little soul as much as I am to any charge I actually get paid to care about, am I right?"

Domovoi hid the look on his face – a mixture of pleasant surprise and embarrassment – by staring at the floorboards, but _dammit when did the lad get so tall?_ Standing, he was way above eye-level from The Major's position sat on the bench. It was sometimes easy to forget he wasn't even a full year into his teens yet. He was still just a kid.

"Go ring your mother while I grab a shower," he said, standing up. "Get yourself some food. Then we'll talk, alright?"

Dom looked more reluctant than a donkey faced with a cattle-grid, but it was a vast improvement on looking like a puppy in a snowstorm, so The Major deigned to deal with that issue when he got to it. The lad may be have been born stubborn, but he had two decades more experience on that front.

* * *

It took a while to pluck up the courage to pick up the phone. It was only when he realised he had been standing, staring at the handset, for so long that his grandfather might think the CCTV camera had been looped if he was watching the monitors, that he growled at himself for his apprehensiveness and snatched the phone off the hook.

Out of habit, he almost rang his mother's work's office phone, reserved for calling family during a break in a busy A&E shift.

It was how he normally got in contact with her, to avoid the possibility of Paul picking up the phone. But it was mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve. His mother's shift at the hospital would be over – she had taken the last shift of Christmas Eve and all of Christmas Day off especially to spend it with them – yet another fact he felt guilty for about for leaving her – and Paul would hopefully be down the pub with his mates.

The phone had rung three times and he was almost about to put it down, thinking his mother must have gone with Paul, when the receiver clicked and he could hear the TV blaring in the background of the flat. Paul was home then. It was only he that turned the volume up obnoxiously loud just to annoy their neighbours. A wasted effort on one-side, for one of their neighbours was an elderly woman who lived with her cat. The cat was deaf and she was not far behind in that aspect.

Dom held his breath.

"Hello?"

Theresa Brady's voice took him back to a time he felt safe. Before life had taken over. But it had. And they weren't. And so he answered quickly.

"Mam?" he said quietly.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.

"It's me. It's Dom. Paul's there, isn't he? Don't say anything."

He thought he heard the shifting of her hair against the phone as she nodded out of habit.

"I'm OK. I'm at the manor with Uncle."

"I'm so glad you're safe. I was so… If anything had happened to you…"

It killed him to hear the worry in her voice. He had done that to her. All because he couldn't live with the man she loved. Although _why_ exactly she loved him, Domovoi couldn't understand. Then again, he couldn't understand why she put up with him as a son, either. Feelings were impossible to understand. It was one of the many, _many_ great things about Madam Ko's training. Learning how to switch them off.

"I'm fine. Honest. Are you?"

She knew he was bending the truth.

"Of course. Now that I know you are, at any rate."

He knew she was bending the truth.

"Who is it, love?" a second voice called.

The sound of it, even distorted by the fuzziness of their crappy landline at the flat, set his teeth on edge.

"Ma, don't…" but he knew if she tried to deceive Paul, there'd be trouble. "Don't lie. Tell him it's me. I… I love ya."

"Love you too," she said softly, before calling a falsely cheery voice. "It's just Dom. He rung to say he'll be staying with his uncle for a few days."

"A few days? He better fucking not be. Pass it here – I need to talk to him."

There was the thudding of footsteps.

"Merry Christmas Mam. Your present's under my bed," he said swiftly, but he barely heard her begin to return the seasonal greeting before the phone crackled with the breath of someone who always held the mouthpiece too close to their face.

"Go see what we can have for dinner, sweetheart. If there's nothing good we'll go down the pub and grab a meal there, sound good?"

 _Tell him it sounds great. Go move things around in the kitchen so you can't hear him talking to me. Please,_ Dom thought. _Please just do what he wants._

Evidently she did, for the next words spoken were in the low and demanding tone Paul Grant reserved for talking to those he deemed to be beneath him… and in his debt.

"You still there?"

"Yes," Domovoi said coldly. "You wanted to speak to me?"

He had considered slamming the phone down, but that wouldn't have ended well and besides; he'd then have been back at square one.

"As if I'd _want_ to waste my breath on _you_ ," Paul said and the boy could hear the sneer in his voice. "No. I just wanted to remind you you've got a _little promise_ to keep. You didn't forget, did you? Didn't _slip your mind_ , did it?"

"No."

"No _what?_ "

"No, I haven't forgotten. New Year's Eve, eighteen-hundred. Johnson's gym. I'll be there."

Paul had meant for him to add 'sir' to the end of the 'no', Dom knew it. But he wasn't about to say it. Or at least not with this many miles of phone cable between them.

"Don't spout your shitty army jargon at me," Paul said scornfully. "And you better not be pigging out on any of those rich bastards' food, either. You lose this fight because you've been being a fat shit for a week I'll see to it you won't have any fucking teeth left to eat with."

Dom thought of the Fowls' infamous Christmas Feast with a bitter smile. He'd be eating whatever the hell he wanted. Paul's idea of an optimum diet and training regimen was nothing on his uncle's.

"Now I'll let you stay with that sted-head uncle of yours because we're fucking glad to see the back of your ungrateful arse over Christmas," he continued.

Dom ground his teeth. Paul called The Major many names, that wasn't what riled him. For starters, Paul had never even been introduced to him. He had only seen him fleetingly once or twice – and even that was from a distance – when The Major had dropped Dom back off at the flat as a favour. No. That wasn't what had him reciting the steps of the latest _kata_ Ko had set them to learn in an attempt to keep his mouth shut. It was how much he hated that Paul used the pronoun _'we'_ , that had him gripping the phone as though he could strangle the ex-cage-fighter through it.

"But you'll be there at _five-fecking-thirty_ on New Year's Eve and you'll turn up fresh and ready to fight – or else I'm going to come drag you from that castle on the hill by your fucking ear, understood?"

Dom had no idea how he was going to wrangle that feat. Walking had not turned out so great last time. Although at least rural to urban, the temperature would increase slightly rather than drop. It was unlikely Paul would actually come to the manor and even less likely that he would get through the gates, but aggravating the man never worked out well either.

"I'll be there," he repeated in a monotone.

"You'd better be."

The phonecall ended with a crack and Dom replaced the handset much more gently than Paul had done on his end, hoping that his promise to stick to their agreement would at least put the man in a good enough mood to treat Theresa nicely...

"What did she say?"

The Major Butler was leaning on the banister of the stairs, knuckling water out of his ears. Domovoi jumped. He hadn't heard him coming down the stairs but surely he had heard his conversation. Which meant lying was futile. Or at least, even more so than it usually was.

"She said it was fine if I stayed here for a few days."

"Oh yes? And what about Mister and Missus Fowl? Did they say you could stay?"

Domovoi dropped his gaze.

"Didn't think of that, eh?" his uncle raised an eyebrow.

"No… I… I just thought I'd stay in my room or something."

"For a week?"

"I won't be in the way, I'll…"

"I know you won't. Might even be able to make yourself useful around the place," The Major said, making a mental note to tell his father to inform the Fowls they would have _three_ Butlers at their service for the last week of December. "But you'll miss the _Oíche Chinn Bliana_ _Ball_ because of whatever urgent engagement you've got that I am willing to bet isn't a festivity."

Dom said nothing. Not speaking, was _not_ _lying_ , after all.

The Major sighed through his nose. _This boy..._

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

The Major calculated whether or not his nephew would be up for a bout of gentle exercise on an empty stomach. Physically, at least. Mentally, he would almost never refuse. The carb-loading he had done the night before would help and it would simply be something to ease the pain from lactic acid build-up in his muscles. Might even do him some good.

"How about we go for a run?" he offered, after his internal deliberation.

"You just showered."

"And you're just looking for excuses. I can shower again. Besides, not like I'll be working up a sweat trundling along next to you," he smirked. "Get your trainers. Meet me out front."

Dom didn't think he'd climbed the stairs so slowly in all his life. Not even last night. He didn't even have the excuse of not being able to find his running shoes, stacked neatly as they were in the cupboard he kept all of his training gear. He laced them up and set off down the stairs, almost bumping into Harson, the head security guard of Fowl Manor, as he reached the bottom step.

He looked startled to see the young Butler, but recovered quickly.

"Watch where you're going!" he snapped.

"Merry Christmas to you too," Dom muttered, side-stepping easily.

"Don't speak under your breath at me, boy. In my day, insolence was punished with a sharp clip around the ear and don't you think for a minute I won't do the same to you."

Dom glared at him, daring the overweight, middle-aged security guard to attempt it. Although what he'd do in response, he wasn't certain.

"There'll be no need for that, Harson."

The Major appeared from around the banister, his deep rumble diffusing the situation instantly.

"Ah, Major. I was just trying to instil some manners into the lad," Harson eyed the giant's nephew beadily. "Although by the looks of his face, somebody already beat me to it."

"Leave disciplining my nephew to me," The Major said evenly. "Boy – outside. Twenty on the steps."

"Yessir," Dom nodded, rubbing his hands on his jogging pants in preparation for the score of press-ups his uncle had asked for.

He hauled open the smaller door cut into the giant pair and vanished into the coming dark. This deep into winter, the sun was already setting in the mid-afternoon.

"Did you need something?" Harson asked impatiently. "Because I'm leaving in forty minutes. Christmas hours and all that, you know."

 _Christmas hours,_ The Major almost snorted aloud. Butlers didn't do _'Christmas hours'._ In fact, they filled in for everybody else's ' _Christmas hours'_.

"No," he said lightly. "Just thought I'd make it clear that if I find you speaking to my nephew like that again, we'll be having _words_ of our own, Mister Harson. Understood?"

Harson looked affronted, but the second of the two Butlers younger than him in the household was gone after the other one, slamming the door with blast of winter air before he could pass comment. He thought about mentioning the episode of insolence from the pair of them to the elder Butler, but the man was about as reasonable as he was blunt and his response would likely be along the lines of; "If you can't keep them in check, maybe _they_ should outrank _you,_ Harson. I'll put it to Mister Fowl, shall I?"

Harson scoffed, leaving the hall to finish his pre-Christmas-break checks. Damn Butlers - thinking they were superior to everyone.

He refused to let it occur to him that it was because they were.

* * *

 **Just a quick note - somebody (think it was HolidayBoredom) asked me about the age gap between Dom and Artemis Senior. And I've realised I messed it up a bit in some fics and as I am mostly trying to link most of my work together as one massive 'verse. So this is the correct version: it's about 4 years. About the same as the gap between Artemis Junior and Juliet. It doesn't have too much of an effect at this point, but it annoyed me that I'd "done a Colfer" and messed up the ages previously. So I felt the need to clear it up haha :)**

 **And can I just take up a few characters to doubly thank all the reviewers. You've all been reviewing these chapters so faithfully and to be honest the best is yet to come with this fic. I always worry people are going to give up on me and my long intros. But you all assure me it's fine and, well... thank-you for the boost. I dunno if anyone cares, but if you review I do reply personally to each and every one just to let you know how much your going to the effort is appreciated, I just think you deserve actual public recognition as well.**

 **Next chapter: The Talk.**

 **I hope you're looking forward to it,**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	5. Chapter 4: Steady the Roll

**Thanks to: ME (aka - artemisfowlstolemysoul), Laura-Wilkie, Steinbock, Holly-Rose Fowl-Casson, P.S. Sword, Readergirl99, Sana Lama Samaha, HolidayBoredom for the much-appreciated reviews.**

 **And to: artemisfowlstolemysoul for the follow and fave.**

 **Special thanks to HolidayBoredom for the offer to beta. This chapter has been looked over by her, but seen as though I am far too set in my ways of working without a beta-reader, I'm not sure it'll actually be any less over-wordy. Spoilers: It's not. But 10/10 for effort. On her part. Not mine.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNING: Yeah, you guessed it. More gruff!fluff.**

 **Also, this is... not "The Talk" - I found a better place to split it than posting a 7,000 word chapter.** **I hope you enjoy it all the same :)**

 **Forward!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOUR: Steady the Roll**

 _ **To regain control of a vessel which has been deviating uncontrollably  
**_ _ **in a direction parallel to that of forward motion**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

"Done?" The Major asked the boy, who was still dipping his nose to the snow in a steady rhythm.

"Done forty," he said glibly, standing and brushing a frosting of snow from his palms. "You were ages."

"And you're a cheeky little shit. What have I told you about disrespecting Arsehole, hmm?" he asked, not missing the irony in his question.

"To do it quietly because the fat, old wanker's going deaf… sir?" Dom said with the barest hint of a smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth.

"I believe what I said was _not to_ , actually," The Major said, trying not to smile.

Dom muttered something that sounded a lot like _'same difference'_.

"I, on the other hand, am not so old that my hearing is failing me."

Dom shrugged. "All them gunshots have gotta have an effect at somepoint. S'why Ko insists on earplugs nowadays."

" _Those_ gunshots. Speak properly, boy. And she does, eh?" The Major raised an eyebrow, leading the way down the stone steps. Interesting. Madam Ko usually insisted on as little equipment as possible. That way, mistakes could be all-but limited to human error. And she wasn't training them to be foolish humans; she was training them to be Blue Diamonds.

"'Course, way back when you were there they probably hadn't been invented yet."

"Oh _hardy-ha_."

The Major would have offered him that clip round the ear if it hadn't have been inappropriate for the subject he was cautiously navigating towards.

Besides, he wasn't surprised the boy had done more press-ups than he had asked for. Firstly, this was his nephew, always striving to do better than was expected. Secondly, it was four degrees below freezing and sitting around doing nothing whilst waiting for your superiors to finish chatting was not fun at the best of times – and he should know. He had spent long enough doing it himself.

"Cold?" he asked.

Dom shook his head, but considering the rest of him was also shaking, The Major didn't believe him.

"Let's go then," he said, breaking into a jog.

The Major didn't run him hard. He'd thoroughly taken into account that Dom would be hungry after his long sleep and still weakened from the night before – not to mention however many days he'd been schlepping it across a whited-out Ireland. He made a mental note to get a coherent response to that question to confirm the 'three days' he'd got as an answer earlier. Partly because he wanted to know how many days the boy had been missing for without a phone-call from Theresa, and partly because covering that sort of distance in three days was pretty damn impressive for a kid with a pair of trainers and no rations.

They jogged at a steady 'recovery pace' around the perimeter – of course, The Major wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to check the security of the manor – and soon Dom felt warmer; the healthy, invigorating kind of warmth as opposed to the heating system's stuffy attempt to ward off the cold. Maybe he was getting too used to training, but he never felt better than after a good, hard run in the chill of the outside air, when his blood was pumping and he felt invincible to the cold. Their breaths came in great clouds of steam in front of them as their trainers crunched over a well-used track The Major and his father had already run a number of times that week. The fresh snow had left a crust above the indentations of their previous footprints, but the going was vastly easier than it would have been fighting through the untouched drifts.

"Warm enough?" the elder asked as they approached the bottom of the small hill, topped by a wooden bench. Although the height gain was not overly significant, laterally, it was at least a couple of hundred metres to the top.

"Yup," Dom nodded, anticipating the next question, taking a few, longer, bouncing strides off the balls of his feet and exhaling deeply to fill his lungs with a full complement of fresh, clean air.

"Go on, then. How many do you need to beat me?" his uncle asked with a wry grin as they drew to a stop at their usual point.

Dom bared his teeth in defiance. "Fourteen."

The Major ' _hmmed'_ disbelievingly. "Fourteen, eh?"

"Yup."

"Alright. You called it, your forfeit," he said, dropping to the ground so that only his toes and fingertips were touching the snow. "Ready?"

Dom crouched into a 'starting blocks' position, ready to sprint. He nodded. He would have to do triple what he'd suggested if he lost.

"Set…" The Major said bending his elbows so that the chest of his hoodie brushed the snow, still eyeing the top of the hill. "… _Go!_ "

Dom's trainers slipped on the snow as he pushed off, flying for the top of the hill, legs driving furiously to defy the incline. Behind him, The Major pumped out fourteen press-ups at double-speed. It was getting close these days. As he pushed up from the final one, he was already moving forward, speeding after the rapidly retreating figure of his nephew.

Dom realised he wasn't breathing enough, relying too heavily on his anaerobic respiration, muscles building up lactic acid as they battled to keep up with the demand… He could hear his uncle racing up behind him, feet crunching with rapid efficiency through the snow. He gritted his teeth and dug deep, lungs burning. The bench loomed ahead of him – he was going to make it!

The Major bared his teeth. The lad was getting too fast for a double-figure head-start. The little sneak had known exactly what he was doing when he'd said fourteen. He should have knocked him down a few to make him work for a rare victory.

Time to play him at his own game.

He lengthened his stride, thankful he was well-warmed-up after his double training session, closing the gap. The ground began to level slightly, Dom leaning forward as he ran to make the most of what was left of his advantage. The Major made his move.

Before he knew it, Dom was eating snow.

One foot had snagged seemingly on thin air – or rather _not_ – and his legs went out from under him. He tumbled head over heels, landing with a heavy _'oomfph!'_ , knocking the wind out of himself as he crashed out onto the hillside, stopping his descent with a well-placed fling of his arm. Downhill fall-training was just yet another thing his uncle had tutored him in.

The Major slowed to a jog and passed him, slapping a hand symbolically on the back of the bench with several deep barks of laughter. He pushed off the hand and leapt over the back of it, his feet never touching the wood. Then he stood in front of it, folding his arms and looking down at the boy on the icy ground.

"Cheat," Dom spluttered as he spat out a mouthful of snow.

"Initiative," The Major retorted, offering a hand. Despite what he had said about it being easy, vapour was steaming from his shaven crown as he leant down to flash a rare grin at his nephew. "Besides; you started it. Fourteen was far too many."

"Fine," Dom grouched, reaching for the hand.

The Major would have spotted the glint in his eye, had not been too busy chuckling at the boy's expense.

But he didn't.

And so Dom took his hand, hauling on it a little _too_ firmly.

That was his first warning. There wasn't a second.

Faster than would seem reasonable, he had hooked his foot around The Major's down-most ankle, sliding it up to the knee as he lunged upwards. Caught off guard – a highly unusual occurrence – his uncle's eyes widened as realisation dawned and Dom had the chance to throw his other hand up to grasp at the neck of the man's hoodie. His weight combined with the force with which he threw himself backwards was enough to make the material tear as The Major attempt to rebalance…

And that was all it took.

The giant fell forward - the angle of the hill was in his nephew's favour and he was unable to counter the movement and rectify the catastrophic loss of balance with his captured arm without risking hurting the boy attached to its wrist. The other arm flailed comically before being thrown forward to catch himself on the snow. It unequivocally would _not_ have worked had they been on level ground, but combined to achieve the nigh-impossible, was the element of surprise, the downwards, snowy slope and Domovoi's knowledge of the trigger points on the human body, meaning that he knew _exactly_ what kind of force to apply – and where – to make a knee buckle, regardless of the size of his opponent.

 _Which ironically,_ The Major thought as he turned the fall into an _almost_ -graceful dive face first over his nephew and into the snow. _He only knows because I taught him._

To his credit, the bodyguard managed to perform an improvised one-armed flip and land flat on his back instead of his face. Dom held onto the front of the hoodie and so was brought tumbling over by the momentum, landing squarely on his uncle's chest, shifting the fist twisted into the torn material and swiftly turning his grip into a choke hold. Or at least, he would have done, had The Major's hands not come up lightning fast – the right twisting sharply and reversing the hold, his left delivering a punishing clump of snow he had procured from his landing, down the front of the boy's shirt. Dom yelped breathlessly, fighting furiously to roll away, but his uncle was still almost twice his size and the man overpowered him easily.

"How'd you like that, then? You little bugger," he growled, rolling and flipping his attacker onto his back, scrubbing snow into his short hair as he pinned him across the chest with one forearm, flattening the boy's scrabbling legs with his own as they tumbled and slid a little further down the hill in their tussle.

"No – stop – argh! _Initiative_ – couldn't – resist!"

The elder grabbed another handful of snow, holding it threateningly above his nephew's face.

" _Initiative_!" the boy appealed again, cringing and laughing all at the same time.

The Major relented, clapping his hands above the boy and showering him with the shattered snowball. He rocked back onto his haunches, chuckling lowly. "I suppose you _are_ only following by example."

"Following an _excellent_ example," Dom nodded enthusiastically.

"Bootlicker," The Major grouched, letting him up all the same.

Dom sat up, shuddering snow from his shoulders. His face was lit up with a genuine smile.

"I _so_ got you, though. Your face…"

The Major glared at him, but he didn't have the heart to put any menace into it.

"Did you like what I did with that ankle-hook? I took down CVP with that last term. He was fuming. Still managed to get me in an arm-bar, but I'll get him next time."

"I am _not_ Charley Van Penrose, boy," The Major grunted. The man had a good heart, but he was far too conceited - far too _sure_ of his own skills - for the Butler to respect. Certainly, he trained his students well, but The Major was greatly looking forward to the day his nephew came back with tales of beating the man in a spar. The sooner the better, for being beaten by a young, teenage Butler should bring the pompous tutor down a peg.

"Yeah - you're much better than him," Dom nodded in agreement.

"Good answer."

"I still got you though..."

"You ripped my damn jumper, you mean," he said gruffly, unwilling to admit that yes, the boy had indeed _'got him'_ , especially not sat as he was, with melt-water soaking into the seat of his pants.

Dom grinned. "Sorry about that."

"Oh yeah?" he growled. "How do you normally look when you're sorry, punk?"

Domovoi sniggered, clearly pleased with the result of his little prank.

The Major let him bask in that for a few seconds. No need to burst the kid's bubble so fast. In fact, it nigh-on killed him to do it at all, but the whole purpose of coming out here in the first place was not to be sat here freezing his bollocks off for nothing.

"Alright," he said, clapping his nephew on the shoulder. "You win this time."

The lad literally sank beneath his hand, but he looked up at him reluctantly at the exceptional admittance, smile vanishing like the last sliver of the sun as it dipped behind the woodlands at the Western border of the manor grounds.

"You want me to talk now," he stated glumly, beating him to the punch.

"Yes," he said simply.

"I don't."

"I know."

Silence reclaimed the evening, flooding down from the darkening sky to cover the grounds, sweeping over every last echo of the rare sound that was Butler laughter.

A bird fluttered across the horizon, cheeping a warning before it dived into the trees and too fell quiet.

The Major exhaled loudly, mist billowing from his lips. _Here goes nothing._

"What's going on with you, Dom?"

* * *

 **Sorry about the three day wait this time. I need to spread the updates out a little in order to finish a chapter that decided to demand to be written a few days ago and fits in around Chapter Seven. It's a nice chapter, so I want to make sure it's up to my exacting standards before you get to see it. And we're creeping up on it haha - So yeah, expect updates every 2-3 days, I can pretty much guarantee it won't go over that though :)**

 **Well, keep up the good work reviewing. Never fails to make me smile :)**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

 **21/01/2016**


	6. Chapter 5: Breach

**Thanks to: Sama Lama Samaha, write that wrong, Readergirl99, Steinbock, Jolinnn, Kath, P.S. Sword, Laura-Wilkie and artemisfowlstolemysoul for all of the praise - you guys are brilliant :)**

 **And thanks to: egel-0507 for the follow and fave and Maudolphin for the follow.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNING: Did actually make my own heart ache a liddle bit whilst writing this. And that's pretty much made of stone. So yeah... Consider yourself warned. I would apologise, but... well there's always a place for bit of angst, right? Let me know haha**

 **This is actually 'The Talk' - thank-you for your patience in waiting for it. I hope you find it worth it.**

 **Brace for impact of gruff!fluff feels!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIVE: Breach  
**

 _ **To break through a defensive barrier.**_

 ** _Previous chapter..._**

 _Silence reclaimed the evening, flooding down from the darkening sky to cover the grounds, sweeping over every last echo of the rare sound that was Butler laughter._

 _A bird fluttered across the horizon, cheeping a warning before it dived into the trees and too fell quiet._

 _The Major exhaled loudly, mist billowing from his lips. Here goes nothing._

 _"What's going on with you, Dom?"_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

"Why do you ask?" the boy said, instantly on the defensive.

The Major kneaded his forehead. Some things were best approached with all the caution awarded to a live bomb – highly trained, defensive teenage nephews was definitely one of them. _Now how to defuse it...?_

"I'm just… just reckoning there's something you're not telling me," the older Butler said simply.

That seemed to stump him, which at least meant that he was right. It was true. There was something.

"I… I don't know where to start," the younger said quietly, crushing a handful of snow into a fist-length icicle and letting it tumble out of his hand before it could melt.

"Would you like me to ask questions?"

The boy was silent. Shook his head, then nodded it, then stopped.

"True or false, then?"

"OK," he said hesitantly.

"OK," The Major repeated, rather wondering where to start himself.

He looked at the shadow of a bruise on his nephew's cheekbone.

"You'd rather be here than at home," he started.

"Here _is_ my home," Dom said sharply. "With you. And Pa. And the Fowls."

The Major was surprised at how hard those few words hit him in the chest like a fist, but he continued without missing a beat.

"Just yes or no. You came here because you feel safe here."

Another nod.

"You get into fights when you're not here."

Another nod.

"They aren't all at school."

Another nod.

"And..." he paused. "Paul hits you."

Dom looked at him, dropped his gaze. Nodded.

The Major had known it was true. He wasn't often wrong when he suspected something. But something about hearing – seeing, it didn't matter – it admitted… He didn't realise his hands had curled into fists. Or that he had neglected to ask the next question.

"Uncle?"

The Major blinked, shook himself free of his dark imaginings. He was grinding his teeth again.

"Yes, boy?"

The lad was looking at him with those dark, deep blue eyes of his – the exact shade of his brother's. The exact shade of his own.

"Did you… did you already know?"

"More…" he paused, finding the words. "Well, as I said. I more _just reckoned_ there was something you weren't telling me. And I had a nasty feeling I knew what it was. I just didn't want to believe that... well your mother for a start..."

"It's not her fault," the boy defended instantly.

"Well, I know it's not her doing but still she could at least have..." he petered off.

Dom's chin was on his chest, his arms wrapped protectively over his knees. He said nothing.

"I wish you'd told me earlier," The Major said, huffing out another large breath of air. It crystallised into water vapour, swirling away into the frozen sky.

"Are you… disappointed in me?" the boy asked, breaking his silence.

" _Disa_ …" The Major frowned in confusion. "What? No. Of course not. Why on Earth _would_ I be?"

"Because… because I can't defend myself properly."

The Major almost groaned in frustration. Snow was freezing through his trousers. When he had envisaged this conversation, it had been at least with the pair of them sat on the bench. Not that that was much less snow-covered. Or, in actuality, much warmer.

He sighed. How to put this without making it sound like he was merely providing an excuse?

"There's no shame in being beaten up by someone a lot more powerful than yo…"

"But he's _not_ more powerful than me! And I could beat him… I _know_ I could," Dom argued furiously. "He's a shit, second-rate cage fighter. That's why he makes me fight for him instead."

"He makes you fight?" The Major raised his eyebrows. "With who?"

Domovoi looked as though he hadn't meant to say that, but now he'd started to talk, it was easier to keep going.

"Whoever they put me against. They pick them. I just do the fighting."

"They?" The Major inquired. There was more than one person involved in this?

"Paul and his mates. His cage-fighting buddies. They organise loads of fights. There's age groups. Under twelves, fourteens, sixteens, eighteens. Then adults. People bet on them."

"Betting on cage-fighting kids. Doesn't sound very legal," The Major raised an eyebrow. A hypocritical statement really, given his own activities. But the point still stood.

"Probably isn't," Dom snorted. "Not in this country, anyway. They do it at night and off-the-books. One of the guys owns a warehouse gym with a proper cage ring set-up and they hold them there. The fighting is all legal, the betting is the dodgy bit."

The Major pieced it together quickly. "So you fight, people bet, you beat the shit out of the opposition and Paul gets the lion's share of the takings."

"Something like that. Only sometimes I have to pretend like I'm losing for a few rounds or people else think it's a fix."

"A fix because you beat them too easily?" The Major spoke through his revelation. It would be simple, really. Foolproof. And quite a little money spinner. If he approved of dishonest gambling, he might even have applauded the set up. If it did not involve the abject _exploitation_ of his nephew and his valuable talent.

"Too quickly. Yeah," his nephew finished. "Makes it look too easy. They think the other guy isn't fighting back. It's hard to back off though, you know? It's not what I'm used to."

"Cage-fighting, eh?" The Major said thoughtfully. Of course, Domovoi would be good at that. He was the best natural fighter he'd ever seen – and that included himself and his brother.

"Yeah. Kinda like no-rules kickboxing mixed with wrestling, MMA and anything else you care to mention."

"I know what it is," The Major said. You did not get to his age in his job and level of training and not know every kind of fighting – organised or not – that there was in the world. "I suppose you can liken it to freestyle sparring."

"Yeah, only it's not as… refined as sparring. Anything goes. Except spitting, scratching, biting and eye-gouges. Not supposed to do any of that, but people do anyway."

The Major considered this. Ko occasionally allowed all-but brutal sparring fights to go ahead if two students had a severe issue with eachother that would best be sorted by letting them fight it out. But even they were strictly regulated. How long had he been coming home from the Academy and switching off that disciplined control? That in itself was dangerous. The things he had – and would – be taught at The Academy… they required – _necessitated_ – a level of control beyond that of the average human being. Without it, they could be deadly; as destructive to the bearer as they were to anyone who got in their way.

"You've been doing this for a while?"

Dom nodded, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, resting his chin on the damp material.

"You know Ma met Paul because I took up kickboxing at the same gym he cage-fought at?"

The Major gestured for him to continue. He had a rough idea of where Paul had appeared from. He'd done a _small_ amount of research on the man. Background checks, CRB, medical records, family history… just the usual. Nothing extensive, of course.

"Then when… you know," Dom continued, stiltingly. "When Paul moved in and stuff… he knew I would be good at it. He took me to fight in some junior tournaments. It was… well I thought it was _fun_."

His uncle shrugged. "I imagine it was."

"I enjoyed it," Dom admitted bitterly. "I was better than everyone else and I was practicing stuff you'd taught me, only for real."

"If I'd have known, I'd have…" The Major started.

"Stopped training me?" Dom asked glumly. "Told me to find a better outlet for my talent?"

"No," his uncle said with a resigned look on his face. "I'd have taught you some more situation-specific moves so you could defend yourself better. There's a lot I could give you on close-contact hand-to-hand combat when you've not got a principal to worry about. Would have saved you a few bruises, anyway."

Dom looked surprised. "Thanks. But they tog kids up in shit-loads of padding and I was good enough to win, anyway. Even against the ones who have cage-fighting dads and have been pratting around with it since they were toddlers. It wasn't them that was the problem. Paul would train with me. I'd... I'd even _ask_ him to. I wanted to train harder. Like I always did with you and Pa."

"Dom - it's a careful balance. You know we always made sure that..."

"I know, I know that now," his nephew sighed. "But I was really into it. I didn't know any better and... well, looking back he always pushed me too hard. I'd get injuries but he'd never let me take any time off. That's sort of how it started. The whole... hitting thing."

"I used to see your bruises," The Major admitted. "I just thought either you were trying to train at home or you were a clumsy kid. That's why I put so much effort into your co-ordination and balance training."

"That's what that was all about?" Dom almost smiled. "Well, at least I aced alternative routes classes."

It was true - there was only three people in his year who had managed to race across the high-wire obstacle course without losing the glass of water from their head. And he had held the record for the fastest time.

"Well I'm glad there was a silver lining," The Major grunted. "But if I'd have thought for a second that..."

"You'd have beat the shit out of him. I know," Dom assured him with a sigh. "When I was really young though, I didn't even realise he shouldn't have been sparring with me that hard. I just thought I wasn't doing it well enough if I was getting hurt."

"That's what he told you," The Major stated, recognising regurgitated words when he heard them.

"Yeah, I guess," Dom shrugged. "But I was good as it was. And then when I came back from the Academy of course, I was even better. Paul put me in for my first proper fight when I was ten in an under twelve's comp. When I won, he was… he was _pleased_ with me. Told me that now at least I was worth having around. I could earn my keep. He wasn't so… you know. He only shouted back then out of the training ring."

"When did he start hitting you out of it?" The Major asked bluntly.

Dom shrugged. "Couple of years ago, maybe. I dunno. Like I say. He'd always be a bit too rough when he was training with me and that only got worse as I got bigger. But then... I'd been at The Academy and when I came back… Well… he was drunk the first time he cracked me one for real. I just... stood there. Like a muppet. Didn't even throw up a block. I guess I wasn't expecting it. I didn't think he would… Anyway. It's easier to predict now. I can roll most of what he throws at me. Like I say, he's usually drunk and to be honest he's not got a great hook on him either."

The Major had the feeling the boy was still being evasive, but pressed on.

"Does he do it a lot?"

"Only when I piss him off."

"That's no excuse."

"It doesn't happen all the time. Especially if I've earned him a bit of cash in the cage," Dom said matter-of-factly. "Or if there's a big match coming up he doesn't want me looking ragged for."

"So you fight in under fourteens? Any of the kids any good?"

"I fight in under _sixteens_ ," corrected the boy. "I completely took out a kid last year and Paul upped my age bracket again on paper because there's no competition in mine. Nobody believes I'm thirteen, anyway."

"Ever met anyone you couldn't beat?"

"'Course not," Dom scoffed – and _there_ was the spark of arrogance Madam Ko carefully both nurtured and curtailed in equal measure. It had to be just enough to give her students utter confidence, without allowing them to become conceited enough to think themselves invincible… He paused. "Well, not _yet_ , anyway."

The Major decided that a _'That's m'boy'_ probably wasn't in order at this moment. He should not be condoning his nephew beating the crap out of other kids for money. Especially not when it was some sleaze-ball, scumbag, child-beating piece of shit like Paul Grant getting the benefits for it.

"That's where you have to be on New Year's Eve," he predicted. "Another fight?"

Dom nodded. "Yeah."

"When was your last fight?"

"'bout… two days after I got back from The 'Cad," Dom told him.

"You must have been tired with jet-lag and so on," his uncle noted.

The boy shrugged. "A bit. Was a pretty hard fight but it meant I qualified for this one, so I had to win it."

The Major considered his options. He could hardly ban the boy from going – and to refuse to help him get to where he needed to be was clearly not going to end well either.

"Why'd you do it?" he settled on asking. "Why not tell him to stuff it?"

"You mean the cage-fighting?" Dom asked, staring into the distance. "Because… well, it's the only thing I'm good at."

"Now that's not true," The Major frowned. "Just wait until you open your report. Then you'll see, I'm sure."

Dom cringed. His Academy report would be due in the post any day now. In fact, he had a sneaking suspicion it had already arrived and his elders were holding onto it.

"Don't pull that face," The Major said, nudging him gently with his elbow.

His nephew was good at lots of things, after all. Shooting, for example. And knife-throwing. And he was getting rather good decimating targets with old-fashioned weaponry like maces and lances – not that The Major could see where that could possibly come in useful in the future, but it didn't pay not to learn skills, even if you never used them. He would have said all of this out loud, but he thought he might be rather exacerbating the boy's point. But he was the best at what he could do for his age – probably in the world, he was being trained by a combination of the best, after all – and quite a bit above it, The Major would wager. What exactly did the lad _want_ to be good at? Poetry? Singing? If he was that concerned about being good at something non-combative, The Major would happily teach him to drive, even at this age. Madam Ko would start training able students to drive at fourteen, but the lad could already move the cars around and drive the small tractors used by the gardeners. Or he could let him practice cooking over the next few days whilst the kitchen staff were away. Or brush up on his navigation. Or even just to speak another language. He'd already picked up three with ease.

"Cage-fighting is the only thing I can do to earn us a bit of extra cash," Dom continued his explanation.

"If you need money, you and your mother both know that your grandfather and I would…" The Major began openly.

"No. None of your money is going to _him_ ," Dom spat the last word viciously. "You earn it risking your life to look after the Fowls. I'm not having Paul benefit from that."

"Come now, Dom," The Major dismissed. "Bodyguarding isn't all about risking your life and…"

"I know that," the boy said, a little sharply. "And anyway. He says that's what my fight winnings and the bet money is for – making a better life for my mam. But then he blows it all on booze and dodgy smokes. He's a liar. But if I don't do it, he… Well I might as well fight _kids_ if I have to take a hit."

The Major looked him in the eye.

"Do you ever fight back? With Paul I mean."

"Sometimes," he admitted quietly. "Never ends well though. That's why I'm here this time."

"Yes?" his uncle enquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Yup," Dom said dully. "Hit him good and proper in the throat."

"Good lad," The Major nodded approvingly.

But Dom wasn't smiling.

"Your back?" he asked the boy, although he knew he was being opportunistic. "The bruising. Did he do that because you hit him back?"

Dom shook his head. "No. He does that anyway – always goes for my ribs and stuff so the bruises don't show up at school. Nobody much cares about bruises in the ring so that's not a problem. And if he's really pissed off he'll clobber me round the head and call it training. Say it was an accident if anyone asks. I can block him easily but he just does it again until my arms are knackered too… so I reckon it's better to take one on the face than, like, a dozen on my forearms."

"And this time?" The Major asked, although he wasn't sure he needed to hear any more. His jaw was clenched, his mouth barely moving as he spoke – a sure sign that he was reigning himself in. He was fairly sure what he was about to hear was going to test that.

"He was hammered. Again. I pissed him off about something. Normally I just let him give me a few cracks and then try to get out of there. But he was really going to town and suddenly I just snapped. I don't know why I bothered. His swings are all theatrics. Big roundhouses. He only ever _really_ does some damage when he's sober."

All this talk of 'usually' had The Major's blood boiling. But he was almost as furious at himself - and Theresa - as he was Paul. This had been happening regularly for a long period of time and yet none of them had made a single step to put an end it it.

"He doesn't just do it when he's drunk then?" he confirmed, his words clipped but neutral.

Dom shook his head slowly.

"Go on," his uncle said, fighting to keep his voice even.

"So I blocked one and threw his arm down so he almost fell over and hit him across the throat as he was going down."

He mimed it, tapping a flat hand against his Adam's apple. The Major's eyes followed and he noticed the skin - still slightly flushed with blood from exercise, was darker in patches. Thumb prints. He wasn't just going to kill the man. He was going to flay him alive...

"When I went for him, he was surprised," Dom continued hesitantly, refusing to make eye-contact with his uncle. "Must've hit him pretty hard though, because when he finished choking about it, he went ape-shit and said I tried to kill him and... that he was going to slit my throat and see how I liked it. Ma tried to stop him going for a knife in the kitchen and he threw her on the ground. And she hit… she hit her head on the side."

The boy swallowed deeply and closed his eyes.

"It's alright," The Major said. "You can stop if you want."

He shook his head, breathing deeply through his nose before he spoke again.

"So of course I lost it and jumped him again. I think I could have really done some damage… but I let him win because then at least then he wouldn't hit her."

"And then you came here?"

"Well… when I came to again – "

The Major ground his teeth. He'd been rendered unconscious? "Was it concussion or asphyxiation?"

Dom rubbed his neck subconsciously. "Probably a bit of both."

"He strangled you, didn't he?"

Dom nodded reluctantly. "I could probably have broke the hold but..."

Flaying was too kind. He was going to _skin_ the bastard.

"Go on," he said, not wanting to hear the details of what was blatant self-sacrifice from his nephew. One thing was for certain, he had the perfect temperament for his future career. "What happened next?"

"Well I sat up and he was dabbing my ma's head with a cloth. She had a cut – here," he traced above his eyebrow. "And he was saying how he was sorry. And how it was my fault. And how he hadn't meant to shove her. And if how if I would just show him the respect he deserved, he wouldn't have to put me in my place."

"So you left?"

Dom shook his head.

"He was holding her jaw really tight whilst he was talking. Making her look at him. It was hurting her. So I got up to pull him off her and he turned to me and told me to look at what _I'd_ done. I told him I didn't hurt her and he said I hurt her just by existing and how they were better off without me. So I said fine, I'd just fuck off then. When I turned my back on him, he booted me one in the back again. Knocked me forward and I rolled and kept going. He pretty much kicked me out of the door. But when I set off down the stairs he must've remembered the fight next week because he started chasing after me. Only he's shit at stairs when he's leathered, so I got away. He was yelling stuff after me but... I ran. And I just kept running," he snorted in disgust at himself, drawing his knees even closer to his chin. "Like a coward."

"No. You ran like a sensible lad. No kudos for getting yourself killed."

"But I left… I left _her_. With _that_ … with _him_. Alone."

The Major knew where this was going.

"It is not your job to protect your mother, boy."

"Yes it is," he answered swiftly, with no room for argument.

"Does she defend you?" The Major asked, for if she didn't, that was not the Theresa he knew.

"Of course she does. Or at least she's tried. Loads of times. It only makes it worse on both of us," he said quietly. "I try not to let her know if she doesn't see, because if she argues with him about it, he gets angry. And if he hits her because of me… I wouldn't… I can't…" his voice cracked and took a deep breath before saying, almost too quietly to hear; "It's my fault."

"Dom," The Major said sternly. "It is _not_ your…"

"Yes it is," he said sharply. "She's even said herself that he's never like it when I'm away."

"That's his doing. Nothing to do with you. There's a special place in hell for those who beat people like he does. And an even more exclusive zone for those who think they can do it to _my_ family."

The Major's eyes were glinting dangerously as he spoke, but the words didn't seem to be having the right effect. If anything, Dom looked more concerned than he had before he had started talking.

The Major reached out and touched his nephew's shoulder with a tenderness his size and usual demeanour belied.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked, his words heavy with frustration and regret. He could have stopped this...

"Because I knew you'd react like this," the boy mumbled into his knees. "I knew you'd want to… to _help_. And I don't need help."

"Debatable Domovoi, m'lad," he said gently.

"I can manage it," Dom insisted hotly. "If I earn him a few quid, he lays off me. I was stupid this time. Reckless. Pushed my luck when he was drunk. I know better than that," – The Major could tell the words were once-again paraphrased from the self-same excuses Paul would spin to his girlfriend – "I got cocky. Or else… I don't know. Maybe I just didn't think he'd go for me this close to a fight. Or at least not as bad as he did. He normally doesn't want to do anything that might risk me losing. Not like I would, but still. Like I said; I pushed my luck and I deserved it."

" _Don't_ say that," his uncle growled sharply. "Don't you _ever_ say that, you hear me? You don't deserve any of this."

The youngest Butler shook his head slowly, but whether he was agreeing with him or denying it, The Major wasn't sure.

"Are you angry?" Dom mumbled into his knees.

"At him? I'm fucking livid," The Major said, clenching and unclenching his fists repetitively, mentally running through all the _very_ many accidents and aliments that could happen to any overweight man in the latter half of his thirties, without raising suspicion.

"But at me? Are... are you angry with me?" his nephew asked, his voice just shy of cracking.

The Major frowned. "What? Of course not, boy. I just... I just can't understand why the hell you didn't just tell me in the first place."

There was a silence that spanned a few seconds, the wind whistling through the trees.

"I thought… I thought you'd be disappointed in me," the boy mumbled, barely above a whisper.

The Major felt his stony heart squeeze with the words. All the work he'd put into what was fast becoming a brilliant young man before him and the whole project was threatened by some waste of oxygen, abusive, alcoholic, deadbeat, failure, scum of the... No, not _'the project'_ , he corrected himself, cutting short his rant on Paul. Domovoi was more than that. He was his nephew. His _boy_.

He sighed again. How had things come to this? Really? If only the boy's real father had stuck around... He shook his head. Beckett was way up the chain of blame here. And besides, he could do nothing about his brother's disappearance. Heaven knows he'd tried.

"Come here, you silly little sod," he said gruffly. "As if I'd ever be disappointed in _you_."

And with that, The Major reached over to his furthest shoulder and pulled his nephew close against the protection of his side, shielding him from anything and everything that would attempt to do him harm. Domovoi didn't pull away. He was at an age now where he was growing up, becoming more independent, even less willing to admit a weakness; but there were still some things that could bridge the chasm of coming-maturity and perceived 'toughness'. Budding reputation be damned - right now he wanted nothing more than to, for once, be the one under protection. The elder rested his chin lightly on the younger's head and, as the world turned dark around them and the stars in the clear night sky glittered like glass shattered onto tarmac, he pretended not to notice that not all of the shudders wracking the boy's shoulders were from the cold.

* * *

 **Ah ok who's heart is aching for the great big murderous beasts? Just remember it turns out alright for the little one and one day his charge drags him to go sit in fields looking for fairies whilst he is probably wondering just how exactly his highly eventful life has lead up to that point.**

 **Thanks for sticking with me. I promise action on the horizon, but for now I hope you're not getting bored of the gruff!fluff :)**

 **Wolfy**

 **ooo  
O**


	7. Chapter 6: Thereabouts

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, P.S. Sword, Readergirl99, Holly-Rose-Fowl-Casson, write that wrong and Steinbock. As the review box tells ya: the author thanks you for your continued support. You guys keep me motivated :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNING: There is a bit more swearing than the last few chapters, I think. Multi-lingual swearing too, actually. Bit of Russian in here. I've translated the longer sections for you, but there's a few words here and there which you can probably guess. I apologise to anyone who does actually speak Russian - mine leaves a lot to be desired and/or GoogleTranslated. Also, Pa Butler heavily features in this. He needs his own warning. For excessive awesomeness.**

 **Long Chapter Alert! And t** **his one has a flash-back in it. And you know what that means? Yup. Baby!Dom :) Considering it compensation for the heart-rending ending of the last haha**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIX – Thereabouts**

 _ **Roughly, but not quite exactly, accurate**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

Domovoi liked the landing where the two staircases conjoined on the first floor.

From up here, he could see the entire entrance hall of the manor. Every suit of armour in every alcove was gleamingly polished – one was even wearing a Christmas hat atop the pointed helmet, although that was surely the work of some mischievous children of the staff that had left that morning. The great many portraits of the Fowls, all lined up and trapped in their frames, couldn't look down their noses at him from down there, even if he _was_ only – for now at least – a lowly servant boy. Even the top of the enormous Christmas tree was below him. He remembered watching his uncle and grandfather wrestle it into position last year and felt a twinge of regret that he had not been around to watch them this time. All in all, it had been a lot of grunting and growling and swearing under the breath, but it was fun to watch and even more fun to help decorate it afterwards. He leant over the wooden rail to look down on this year's attempt. Last year, he remembered the tree as being a little shorter. After they had gone beyond the reach of the youngest Butler standing on his elders' shoulders, The Major had dangled him over the bannister by the ankles to put the star on top, swearing about remembering to put it on before hauling the thing upright next time. This year, he could probably reach out and touch the peak of the enormous evergreen it if he so wanted…

"Something on your mind, boy?"

"No sir," Dom said, looking up sharply. "I was just… just thinking."

His grandfather was looking at him with what could almost be described as amusement flickering over his weathered features.

"Which is rather the definition of what I asked, don't you think?"

Dom dipped his head with a shrug and the giant gave a growling chuckle. Here was a man who had gone through five times as many years as he had so far, survived them all and come out stronger. The respect he held for his grandfather was rivalled only by the respect he regarded two other people in the world with – and one of that short list was the man's own son. That being said, the bodyguard was perhaps only _not_ terrifying to Domovoi because he was his grandsire. Dom knew that almost every servant kid in the manor – not to mention a great many more of the adult staff – thought he was, and it was an opinion Alexandr Butler did little to dissuade. Even Artemis had, once or twice, reconsidered enacting a misdemeanour at the threat of being caught by his father's bodyguard. Much more often than he had at the thought of being discovered misbehaving by his own Butler, that was for sure. But for Dom, this was the man who he had always adored listening to the stories of. The old soldier had told him many a tale over the years and had been the one to begin his training more than a decade ago now.

"You ate well at dinner?"

"Yessir," Dom said, for he felt warmer and fuller than he had in weeks.

"Mister Fowl would like me to pass on that you're welcome to stay here for as long as you like in return for helping out around the manor whilst the staff are off over Christmas. Taking jackets, acting as a bell boy, waiting-on and the likes."

"Of course. No problem," Dom nodded. "I'll thank him when I see him."

Keeping on the head of the Fowl family's good side was a high on his list of priorities lately. If Eugene Fowl didn't want him around, there was little his uncle or even grandfather could do to counter that. The Butlers had always had a good relationship with their employers – the partnership between the two families would not have lasted so many generations if they did not – but the Fowls were still their employers first and foremost. Sometimes Dom wondered if his family was seen as anything other than staff. A forgotten luxury like everything else around here. Like the walls around the manor. Always present, never noticed. Impressive but impassive. Noted by others – sometimes even admired – but then ignored. Not necessarily intentionally, but their presence accepted and expected in equal measure. Dom wondered vaguely what the Fowls would do if they woke up one day and found that their walls had wandered off in the night. The metaphor was not lost on him.

"Now then. Your uncle…" Xandr Butler said, breaking his thoughts once again.

"Did he tell you…" Dom started quickly.

"Hush, boy," his grandfather admonished. "Firstly, of course I've been told. The only worse liar in this family than you is your damn uncle. Besides that, he worries too much. You bring out the mother-hen in him. It's terrible. Nigh-on a quarter century of training him to be a heartless bastard and then you came along and scuppered it all."

Alexandr was hit by a memory from a decade back. It warmed him with a fondness only his family could bring out in him. But although he smiled on the inside, his face did not at all betray the scene playing behind his eyes.

* * *

 _ **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - One decade previous (or thereabouts)**_

 _"For heaven's sake, Pa!" The Major all-but yelped. "You can't give the kid a gun!"_

 _Alexandr Butler ruffled the sheets of his newspaper as he peered over it briefly at the 'charge' he was currently supposed to be babysitting. "Nonsense. It's kept him quiet for the past half hour."_

 _"It'll keep him quiet permanently if it goes off in his gob!" the younger bodyguard snapped, closing the door behind him, crossing the room in a few long strides and scooping up his nephew, wresting the gun from the toddler's grip. Little Domovoi wasn't exactly a noisy child as it was, his father needn't go to such extreme measures to 'keep him quiet'._

 _"Don't be ridiculous, boy," his father sighed, waving a small cuboid of metal between finger and thumb from behind the paper. "The clip's right here in my hand."_

 _The Major inspected the gun and was relieved to see that the magazine was indeed empty._

 _"Don't look at me like that. As if I'd be daft enough to give a three-year-old a loaded firearm," Butler said dismissively. "Besides, you and your brother were playing around with handguns at his age. Didn't kill either of you, either… worst luck."_

 _Xandr smirked, but The Major didn't appreciate the joke._

 _"He's two, actually. And he could still lick some oil or polish off it or something…"_

 _"Huh," Alexandr grunted, as though this was news to him. "He's big for two."_

 _"We're big for **humans** , Pa, in case you hadn't noticed."_

 _Normally Alexandr would have taken exception to his son speaking to him like that, but today he was content to enjoy the younger man's distress at what he considered to be a complete absence of sagaciousness on his father's behalf. Of course the kid had been safe at all times. He hadn't raised two sons and a charge to adulthood by being a complacent imbecile. And this particular infant was currently, in his not-so-humble opinion, the most important in all the damned world._

 _Myles would have massaged his forehead in an attempt to avoid despairing at the fact his father seemed to have very little comprehension when it came to children, even his own grandson, but his hands were preoccupied with keeping weapon and toddler a safe distance from one another. The latter was determinedly wriggling and reaching for the former. The Major put him down on the floor where he sat with a bump and scowled up at him, clawing at his trousers trying to stand again. He actually had exceptional balance for a toddler, of course. Myles wasn't sure if it was normal for some two-year olds to be able to move with as much speed and agility as his young nephew managed with ease, but he suspected it wasn't. Most likely, the majority of carers did not find themselves retrieving their toddlers from as many various places; backs of sofas, bookshelves, shelving units and the likes, as he did. Artemis had certainly never been such of a handful. But Domovoi? Take your eyes off the little blighter for five seconds and..._

 _"He hasn't been chewing at it anyway," the eldest Butler in the room said, as though it was stupid to even suggest he'd allow_ _ **anything**_ _to get saliva on one of his precious weapons. "He's a clever lad, aren't you, little Kingdom?"_

 _"Clever or not, he's still practically a baby. And please don't give him stupid nicknames."_

 _"Whyever not, Smylie?" his father asked, as innocently as a man with his record and history could ask._

 _The Major ground his teeth at the ridiculous alteration of his given name and thanked his lucky stars that tradition and protocol meant that nobody beyond this room would ever be likely to hear him called by it. Dom gave up trying to climb his uncle's leg and bear-crawled over to his grandfather._

 _"_ _ **Off**_ _my boots, boy. Unless you're offering to spit-polish them," the giant growled, nudging his grandson with his steel toe-capped foot. The kid fell onto his rump again but, unperturbed, proceeded to try to clamber up onto the mountainous sofa. Alexandr sighed and, with a ruffle of his paper, moved over slightly to allow more room, but made no effort to help him up._

 _"Pa, please," The Major said, placing the gun on the coffee table and leaping forward to catch the boy as he inevitably fell backwards once again in his attempt to summit the couch. "I'm trying to keep the little bugger alive until Theresa gets here. Could you at least make it_ _ **look**_ _like you're trying to look after him?"_

 _Dom began to make unhappy growling noises, fighting against his uncle's grip again. The Major sat down next to his father and put the kid down gently on the floor once more, where he immediately clambered to his feet again and tottered to the table._

 _"Sigsa?" he piped._

 _"What did he just say?" The Major frowned._

 _"Sig Sauer, I think," his father said impassively. "Terrible diction, though."_

 _"For a two year old?"_

 _"He's right though," Xandr continued, ignoring him. "It is a Sig. P210 – nice gun, actually. Same one I used that time…"_

 _"You've… been teaching him to say gun makes. Of course you have," Myles said through his teeth, cutting his father off before he could start on one of his war-stories. It was possibly **even worse** that the little kid had been happily hugging something that had unleashed merciless bloodshed on some enemy or other not so long ago. Then again, he happily hugged his frankly murderous relatives too, and they'd both be teaching him to be just that himself in a few short years…_

 _"Well, he might as well learn early," Xandr shrugged._

 _"Sigsa?" Dom asked again, pointing._

 _"No._ _ **Enunciate**_ _, boy. Sig_ _ **Sauer**_ _," Alexandr said firmly._

 _"Two, Father. He is **two** years of age," The Major said once again, with faux-calm._

 _"Nonsense. He's nearly three, isn't he? Or thereabouts."_

 _" **Or thereabouts?** He's two years, four months and three weeks old. That is not **'there about'** three."_

 _"My, my, Myles. Isn't that's precise?" Xandr mused with a raised eyebrow. "And h_ _ow many days?"_

 _"Five. Actually."_

 _"Anyone would think you're getting over-attached."_

 _Myles scowled. His father was ridiculing him again. Both of them were, it had to be said, hopelessly besotted with the latest in the long line of the bodyguarding family. Just whereas some families would express that with cooing and cuddling, Butlers expressed it with surreptitious training regimes and, well..._

 _"Sigsa!"_

 _"Sig **Sauer** , Kingdom," the elder Butler said seriously. "Come on, now."_

 _"Sig-_ _ **sow-warr**_ _," said Dom, frowning in concentration._

 _"Close enough," his grandfather said begrudgingly and returned to his paper. "Go on – take it."_

 _"Da?"_

 _"Pa, not Da," The Major frowned, feeling strangely overprotective for his brother's sake over the word, not to mention highly unwilling to run into the confusion that would ensue should his nephew start calling his grandfather 'dad'._

 _"No, he's right. He knows what he's saying," Alexandr said. "_ _ **Da, eto tvoye , **_Kingdom _."_ _- Yes, it's yours._

 _"Spas-bo," said the boy, happily._

 _"_ _ **Spas-i-bo**_ _," his grandfather corrected. - Thank you._

 _"You're teaching him Russian now?" The Major asked disbelievingly. "_ ** _Vy prepodayete malysha govorit' po-russki ?_** _" - You've been teaching the baby to speak Russian?_

 _"_ ** _Da, konechno_** _," his father confirmed and repeating his earlier statement; "He might as well learn early."_

 _"He's not even learnt English yet!"_

 _"He_ _ **hasn't**_ _even learnt English yet," his father corrected with a smirk. "Maybe yours could use some work, m'boy."_

 _"Hilarious. It's still ridiculous you're expecting him to…"_

 _"What's your point, Myles?" the man sighed, becoming tired with this endless back-chatting. The boy should know better by now. "I was speaking Russian at his age."_

 _"Pa – you were_ _ **born**_ _in bloody Russia!" The Major said, throwing his hands out in exasperation. "You probably didn't speak **English** until you were ten!"_

 _"False," Alexandr told him. "I was speaking English before I went to school, let alone The Academy. Best time to teach languages to people is when they're young."_

 _"And what if he gets confused and…"_

 _"And what?"_

 _"And ends up speaking neither?"_

 _"He won't. You didn't, did you?"_

 _"No," his son admitted. "But for the first six years of my life I thought a vacuum cleaner was called a_ _ **pylesos**_ _in English."_

 _"Ah, you got over it."_

 _The Major refrained from pinching the top of his nose in despair at his father's teaching techniques. But it was true that he and his brother had both learnt their father's mother-tongue at an early age and neither of them spoke a mish-mash of the two languages. Or at least not beyond the first year of primary school._

 _He looked back to his nephew. Domovoi was grinning as he played with his prize, sitting down with it in his lap and turning it over in his hands. It was heavy for a toddler and he dropped it onto his foot, scowling at the pain for a moment. He didn't cry, but it did not go unnoticed by his uncle, who leant forward from the sofa to…_

 _"Leave the kid **be** , Myles. He's having fun."_

 _"He could hurt himsel…"_

 _"He's not made of glass, for Christ's sake, boy!" Alexandr said, finally losing patience._

 _"I know," the younger bodyguard said, his chin dropping to his chest. "But it's just…"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Nothing. You'll say I'm being a sap and to go grow a pair."_

 _"I don't doubt it, but please; do continue. I'm interested to hear where you're going with this."_

 _"Because he's…"_

 _"Unca! H'up. H'up?" Dom interrupted tottered towards them, holding out the gun happily and making 'pick me up' gestures. The Major couldn't help but smile at him and help the kid up onto the sofa to be sandwiched between his relatives._

 _"Sigsa too?"_

 _"Yes, yes alright. Sig Sauer too," he relented, taking the offered gun and placing both on the sofa beside him. Dom smiled and patted it happily. Myles rolled his eyes. Most little boys got protective over their teddy bears, but his nephew? No, no, he got defensive about guns. Of course he did._

 _"Go on," prompted Alexandr, finally putting down his newspaper._

 _"Because he's Beck's," The Major said simply, resting a hand on the toddler's downy hair and smoothing it with his thumb. "He's Beck's boy and he's all I've got left of him. All **any** of us have left of him."_

 _Alexandr sighed. He should have predicted this. Ever since his brother's disappearance some three years ago now, the remaining half of his pair of only offspring had changed. The man had become vastly more overprotective, even than was natural for a Butler. He had also taken the mother of Beckett's son, and of course the boy himself, under his wing, providing for them, finding job interviews for the woman, paying their rent until she could support it herself. Alexandr had only met his eldest's girlfriend-of-sorts a handful of times, yet he could see the woman was as proud and headstrong as either of his sons. He suspected Myles had a bit of a soft spot for her, but he knew the lad had too much honour than to shoot for his brother's girl – or at least until it became certain what had happened to Beckett._ _ **'Missing in Action'**_ _was not an unusual state for a Butler to be declared, but three years was pushing the limit of them returning in one piece…_

 _"I know, Myles. Trust me. I know."_

 _He meant that he understood. That he felt a different brand of the same pain. That the loss still kept him awake at night sometimes. And that he had contacted every last one of his old associates asking them to keep an eye out for his son. For his eldest. **His boy**. None of them had found anything so far. Not so much as a molar. Although he supposed that was a good thing. Keep the faith. Keep hoping against all odds that he had taught his son well enough in the arts of survival in this God-forsaken world to make it through whatever life had thrown at him._

 _"But_ _ **I**_ _have_ _ **you**_ _. And_ _ **we**_ _have_ _ **him**_ _," Xandr gestured between them, his paper abandoned and forgotten on the arm of the large sofa. "And together we're going to make the best of this. If Beckett returns, I'm sure he won't forgive us if we haven't done our best with his son."_

 _"I'll treat him as my own," Myles said quietly. "Always."_

 _"I know you will, lad," Alexandr said, allowing a degree of fondness to creep into his tones. "I know."_

 _"He's going to be the best Blue Diamond the world has ever seen."_

 _"If his mother allows it," the older man snorted._

 _"I'll handle Theresa," The Major said certainly._

 _"Oh really? Theresa listens to you, does she?" his father said with a wry smile. "How on Earth do you get her to do that?"_

 _"Ah shut-up, Pa," Myles said, catching his father's rather lewd implication. "She's the mum of my brother's kid. And a friend. Besides, she doesn't see me like that."_

 _"She saw you like that the first time she met you," Alexandr chuckled, remembering the short but highly-embarrassing case of mistaken identity for the pair of them._

 _"That didn't mean anything – that wasn't – she didn't – she thought I was Beckett!" Myles stumbled over the protest awkwardly._

 _"Oh I know_ _ **that**_ _. Question is, who did_ _ **you**_ _think_ _ **she**_ _was?"_

 _The younger bodyguard muttered something about him covering for his brother by not reacting like he'd never seen the woman before, but Alexandr was too busy laughing at his steadily reddening ears. He didn't exactly keep close tabs on his son anymore, but he doubted he had ever been slapped and kissed in such quick succession by a stranger, before or since that day Theresa Brady had turned up on the manor steps with nothing but a rucksack. And Domovoi. She had her baby with her too, of course. And once it had been cleared up that he was not, in fact, Beckett, and mortified apologies had been made and countered, Myles had been handed his brother's son to hold for the first time. And that had been enough to do it. Alexandr hadn't seen the man so besotted with anything – and he had been the one to buy his boys a puppy each at the age of seven to teach them about responsibility. The infant human had even been blessed with the look of ridiculously soft-eyed fondness The Major usually reserved for a well-polished vehicle. It clawed at his chest that his eldest might never see his own son, but the boy would grow up with a father-figure at least, for Myles reacted immediately as if the child were his own._

 ** _Which_** _, Butler thought._ _ **Genetically he may as well be.**_

 _"And then of course there was that other time..."_

 _The Major chose not to respond, but the comment did nothing to reduce the hue of his ears and he busied himself quite determinedly with pulling little Domovoi's hands back into the sleeves of his slightly-too-large jumper._

 _"How's your charge," he asked, changing the subject and saving his son any further explanation for once._

 _"Grounded," The Major said, glad for something else to talk about._

 _"Hmm? What for?" he wondered aloud what his own charge would have punished the six-year old for. Generally, the young Fowl was a well-behaved child._

 _"Cheating on a spelling test," Myles told him, hand straying to make sure Dom didn't overbalance as he hefted the gun around._

 _"Cheating?" Alexandr frowned. "I thought he was bright."_

 _"He is," The Major defended his charge. "That's the problem. He charged twenty pence a word to spell for other kids. Wouldn't have got caught either, if they hadn't all spelled 'mysterious' with an 'i' instead of a 'y'."_

 _"Crafty little devil," Alexandr said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "You'll have to watch that one, Myles. An entrepreneur the moment he can hold a pencil? Not even Eugene was scheming that early into primary school."_

 _"I know," his son said, somewhat glumly. His charge was already surpassing his father's in terms of development of intelligence. And Eugene Fowl was enough of a handful as it was._

 _"Huh. If they get smarter every time, just imagine what the next generation's going to be like."_

 _"Thinking a bit far ahead, aren't you Pa? Artemis is six."_

 _"Indeed. And his kid will need a bodyguard," he said, ruffling his grandson's hair. "So we best make sure whatever prodigy Artemis Fowl produces meets his match with this one."_

 _Myles smiled. He hadn't really considered that. In raising Domovoi, he was going above and beyond the call of duty bodyguarding-wise. Not only was he constantly protecting the current head of the family **and** the latest of the Fowl line, he would already be ensuring the safety of the next heir to the empire._

 _"Oh I think we can do that, can't we Dom?"_

 _The toddler looked at him and, although he couldn't possibly have understood that his life was already planned out for him, he smiled, clutching the gun tightly in both hands._

 _"Ya, Unca," he said happily. "_ _ **Dyadya**_ _._ _ **Da**_ _, ya,_ _ **da**_ _."_

 _"See?" his uncle said despondently as his nephew babbled the word for 'uncle' and 'yes' in both languages his grandfather was teaching him. "He's already mixing his…"_

 _"Myles?"_

 _"What?"_

 _Alexandr Butler picked up his paper once more, opening the sheets with a fluttering snap._

 _"Give it a rest, lad."_

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - _Present Day_**

Dom smiled guiltily. "Sorry Pa."

"Humph," the old bodyguard grunted. "The man's going soft, that's what. Regardless of that, I'm disappointed you chose to keep such important information from us, grandson."

Dom felt his world quake slightly at the four-syllable word. "I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't mean to lie to you both. I just…"

"You didn't know what to say," his grandfather interrupted. "I know. But this is an important lesson, Domovoi. You don't keep secrets from your family. Understood?"

"Yessir," Dom said swiftly.

"Good. So in future, I don't give a damn if you have some ridiculous notion that somehow we'll look badly on you for whatever it is; you tell us. I can assure you that nothing – and I mean _nothing_ – you can do will cause us to disown you or whatever ridiculous notion you had in mind. Christ, if I listed the things your father and uncle got up to in their day, you'd understand that taking part in illegal underage fighting and having some bastard on your case is very far down on the list of offences."

Dom was curious as to what exactly Butler's twin sons had 'got up to', but he sensed that was a pry for another day.

"OK," he said instead.

"Good. We're the only blood we've got, Kingdom," he said, seriously. "And believe it or not, I do find myself fairly fond of you."

"Thanks," Dom said with a small smile. "Likewise."

Butler rested his hands on his grandson's shoulders and looked into eyes almost identical to his own. The pain those eyes would see over the years… The damage the muscles under his palms would inflict… and receive. He sometimes wondered if the time to leave young Butlers to make their own career choices had come… He shook his head slightly. _Now who was going soft?_ Bodyguarding was what they were born to do.

He dropped his hands.

"Go get some rest. You look as though you need it."

"Yessir," the youngest Butler answered. "And… thank-you. For… you know."

"Nothing to thank me for, boy. Except perhaps providing you with your excellent genetics, of course," the elder said with a smirk as he turned away, mind already flitting to security details that were required due to the frankly _irritating_ tradition of wrapping up unidentifiable boxes in opaque paper for his charge and family to open…

"Erm, Pa?"

"Yes lad?" He spun back on his heel. The boy looked shifty, as though he was he just plucking up the courage to…

He was not expecting it, but the old bodyguard felt his stony heart clench as two prematurely-muscled arms wrapped themselves firmly round his middle, squeezing tightly, hiding their owner's face in his shirt. He almost made to push the kid off – he was planning to turn this one into a ruthless killer too, after all – but instead he stopped, wrapping one arm around his grandson's back in a looser return of the gesture and cupping the back of the boy's skull in the other massive paw.

"Merry Christmas, Pa."

"Merry Christmas to you too, boy."

* * *

It was much later that evening, when everyone else was tucked up in bed, that Alexandr got the full story out of his son. He had told the youngest Butler a slight fib when he had said he had been told what _exactly_ was going on. All Myles had admitted to him was that yes, his suspicions had been correct. And so he did have more than a rough, if not entirely _exact_ , idea of what was going on.

"So it's Theresa's man doing it, then?" he asked as they scanned the veritable mountain of presents with metal detectors.

"That's what he said," his son confirmed, squeezing a soft present to check for anything that might suggest an unpleasant surprise for – he read the tag – Missus Fowl. Most likely it was the dressing gown she'd been less-than subtly hinting for, but better to be safe.

" ** _Gandón_** ," the elder Butler growled.

"Uh-huh," The Major agreed, moving onto a stack of presents all labelled for his charge.

"What's your plan?" his father asked.

Myles sighed. "He wants us to stay out of it. He thinks he can handle it."

"Typical mentality," Alexandr nodded.

"Him and Grant, they have a… an _arrangement_ of sorts. He cage-fights for the man. Well, he fights in arranged matches and the sly – " The Major called Paul a word his employer would probably be very shocked to hear him say, " – gets the money for it when our boy decimates the opposition."

"I don't know who I feel sorrier for. Dom, or the kids he's fighting."

"I know. I don't think the cage matches are an issue for him. Knowing Dom he probably genuinely enjoys them. And they've put him in an older age-group so it might even be a bit of a challenge."

"I see your point. But the abuse at home…"

He shook his head.

"He refuses to even call the flat that. Says he feels more at home with us."

"Fair enough," Xandr shrugged.

"But... What am I going to do, Pa? I feel like I should respect the lad's wishes, but it's not on. He's _thirteen_ – and this has been going on years, I'd bet. More so than he's telling me. Even now. But then again…" The Major broke off, almost unable to believe he was actually about to say what he had had a brief notion of.

"He's only getting bigger," his father finished for him anyway. "At some point Grant's going to realise that _he's_ the one pushing his luck."

"That's my point. I'd just… You know I wouldn't forgive myself if…"

"I know, son."

"But then what the fuck am I supposed to do? Theresa too… she's said nothing to me about this. I can't believe she's… she _lets_ this happen."

"Not exactly _'let'_ , I'd imagine."

"She's powerless to stop it, then," he said, as willing as ever to cut the mother of his nephew some slack - but she wasn't completely innocent on this occasion in his eyes. "All because she won't chuck the bastard out on his ear."

"Emotions are complicated things, Myles. It's one of the many reasons Ko disapproves of them so much," his father reminded him. "You of all people should know that."

There was a silence.

"Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?" he repeated, picking another present from a pile and squeezing it just a little violently. "I can't just sit here knowing that **_gad_** is laying his hands on my brother's son."

There was another short silence.

"Well, you know where we keep the body-bags," his father said flippantly. "And I've been meaning to test the integrity of the trunk in the new Bentley anyway. Two birds, one stone."

"Don't tempt me," Myles said, rolling his eyes.

"Just an offer," Alexandr said nonchalantly. "Or you could leave it to me. I have a few favours to call in in the area. He'd only have to disappear. Theresa need never know."

"Father," The Major growled exasperatedly. "I'm trying to come up with a reasonable solution here. We can't just kill everyone that's causing us a problem."

"Who on Earth taught you that?" his father said in an amused tone. "Because I'm damn sure you never heard it from your parents."

The Major breathed a half-laugh. His mother's idea of removing 'problems' usually involved a dose of something deadly slipped into some innocuous beverage and his father, well, it needn't be described. "It's not really an option this time though, is it?"

"Isn't it? Since when was making someone mysteriously disappear not an option? Doesn't even seem like it would be out of character for him. Run up a bit of paperwork about debt and no-one would bat an eyelid at him vanishing from the area."

"Theresa would. She'd think he'd left her for another woman. It'd break her heart."

"The son of a bitch is beating hers. You think that makes her _happy_?"

"No. But Paul treats her well when Dom's not around. She says so herself and I… I've checked up on her a few times, you know?"

"I do," his father said evenly.

Myles scowled. "Do I not get any privacy?"

"Says the man who's keeping tabs on his nephew's mother," Alexandr raised an eyebrow at the irony.

"I do it for her safety."

"And I for yours."

The Major paused his present-checking to give his father a look that translated easily as; _Seriously, Pa?_

"Don't give me that look, boy. You're still my son, Myles. You of all people should understand wanting to protect those that can do a fine enough job by themselves."

The younger man snorted softly in response. "Fine. But this Paul. I'll give it to him - he's dangerous in his own right. And I don't even just want to snap his neck, Pa. I want to play him at his own game and see how he likes it. Then I'll nick his fat throat…" – he tossed a box back a little too forcefully – "…and he can bleed out slowly. A second of blind panic for every mark he's ever left on my nephew."

 _Dramatic_ , thought Alexandr. _But not a bad plan on the whole. Ball-ache to clean up, mind you._

They were almost through the pile now. The elder Butler eyed the fireplace for a few seconds – heaven help anyone who was to try entering the manor through that, or any other, route. Red-suited and Santa-hatted or not, they wouldn't make it far before they found themselves trussed up like the birds already roasting in the oven overnight.

"Well in that case, I may have an idea," he said, turning to his son.

"Does it involve anything I'm going to have to negotiate a prison sentence for?"

"Not if you manage to control yourself, no."

"Alright, then," The Major said. "I'm listening."

"Mick Kendrew," said his father, simply.

The Major raised an eyebrow. "Him? Really?"

"Aye, I think he'll do the job. If the lad won't object too badly."

"Oh he'll object alright. But I'll see to it it's worth his while."

Over the next few minutes, Xandr relayed his proposed course of action to his son, who remained silent the whole time, weighing up the options, the factors involved, until eventually he nodded.

"Sounds like it should work."

"That's settled then," the older bodyguards said, stretching and checking his watch. It was past midnight. _Here's to another twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month._

"Your call," the younger shrugged, following him as they left the presents to await the morning.

"No, m'boy," rumbled Alexandr quietly, as they climbed the stairs. "This time, it is most definitely yours."

* * *

 **Okidoki, so the ball is rolling a little quicker now. But it's about to hit a snowdrift to be honest, because the next chapter is the one I wrote in about six hours over three days and it's even longer than this one haha - I hope that's ok with everyone :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	8. Chapter 7: Downtime

**Thanks to: Readergirl99, write that wrong, Laura-Wilkie, Steinbock, Kath, P.S. Sword and HolidayBoredom (x2)**

 **You are all awesome. And I hope you all got your personal thanks this time. Potentially some of you got two because I haven't been on here for a day or two and would rather spam you with thanks than miss anyone out! :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: Slight silliness ensues. Also, this chapter is fecking long and mostly unedited. I'm sorry if it shows! I'd apologise further, but to be honest I enjoyed writing it and it's much more light-hearted than some of this fic has been thus far :)**

 **It is mostly this long because somewhere in the middle there is vaguely important information on how the Academy grading system works at Madam Ko's Academy in Wolfy!Canon. Which some of you might be interested in, I dunno. You get to read little Dom's school report anyway and find out what a little shit he's been... just kidding. He's quite obviously a teacher's pet...**

 **Also, interactions of a Fowl and Butler nature. Clearly Artemis Fowl II got his dislike of the outdoors from somewhere that was not his grandparents, although they too appear in this. As does Grandpa Butler, being awesome. As always.**

 **Well, I've pretty much given you a blurb of the chapter now, so I'll shut up. Enjoy all that and some Fowls' and Butlers' downtime antics!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVEN – Downtime**

 _ **(Military) A temporary, often short, amount of time given with leave of usual duties. Often used for moral boosting, socialising and team bonding.**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

Christmas with the Fowls was a much quieter affair than some would think. They saved the socialising for New Year's celebrations.

Dom felt a little awkward and out of place, but he followed his family's lead and sitting quietly whilst the Fowls opened their presents with ' _oohs_ ' and ' _ahhs_ ' and much kissing of cheeks and thanksgivings. The Fowls getting the Butlers a gift had only been a tradition the past couple of generations, but this year they each received a set of silver cufflinks. It was an honour, apparently. Not only to be given something, but to be allowed into such an intimate family moment. Personally, as grateful as he was for the present, Dom mostly found it boring. However, it wasn't the first time he'd been sat around watching other people get ridiculously expensive presents and so he was beyond finding the extravagance sickening. The gold watch, the pearl necklace, the state of the art computer system… It was all very much the norm around here. The Butlers nodded and smiled in agreement as Eugene waved around his 'fantastic' new Rolex, as his wife Vivienne exclaimed that the jewellery he had got her was 'just what she wanted', as Artemis thanked both his parents graciously for the newly patented technology they had 'acquired' for him.

 _Some people are so rich,_ his mother had once told him. _All they have is money._

Sometimes he wondered if it was true in the Fowls' case.

Eventually the last present – that cashmere dressing-gown Mrs Fowl had been asking for – was opened and after a short session of yet more thanking before:

"Butler – the camera?"

"Yes sir."

Every year it was the same. Under the grandeur of the lounge-room mantelpiece, the three Fowls would stand together, smiling for their annual Christmas photo. But just as Dom was rising to follow his uncle out of the door, something strange happened. Vivienne Fowl spoke to him. This was a rarity. As a woman who had grown up surrounded by staff of all kinds, she rarely conversed with 'the help'.

"Ah – young man. Junior, that's it. Would you take the photograph? I would rather like Butler and The Major to be in one this year."

Dom was a little dumbstruck and it took The Major to shoot him a sharp look before he nodded.

"Ah yes. Certainly, m'am," he said, remembering the 'correct' way to speak to his superiors.

"First one of the three of us, Butler; you take that," she said quickly, in case they thought she'd had a complete change of character.

The Fowls settled, Eugene with his arm around his wife and one hand on his son's shoulder, but the teenager was far too tall for that now and after some awkward shuffling, the two dark-haired males stood on either side of the woman and at last the photo was taken.

"Take a few – I want to make sure none of us blinked!"

There were a few more flashes before;

"Good. Now then, Butler and Major, either side please!"

This was… unusual. Almost unheard of. Butlers were not for photographing – unless it was to show off the extent of one's security. You may catch a glimpse of a suited torso in the back of a photography but really, they were meant only to be noticed when needed. Not… _included_ in family portraits, that was for sure.

The Major looked to his father for confirmation and the older man gave a silent nod of authorisation.

 _If she insists, we must do as we are bid._

Dom didn't think he'd seen a more awkward family photo in his life and he was forced to back off a few steps in order to fit his relatives into the frame.

"OK – that should do. Hold still... er, sirs and m'am," he said, squinting through the viewfinder. He tried not to grin as both his grandfather and his uncle stared stoically into the camera as though daring the person who would one day be looking at the subsequent photograph, to laugh at them.

"Alright – now you three. By the fireplace. Come now, I'll take the photograph," Vivienne ordered once it was done.

"Excuse me, ma'm, but do you mean Master Artemis and ourselves?" Butler asked.

"What? No – your grandson, Butler. Honestly..."

"I see," Alexandr said, still looking perplexed. "May I enquire as to why? It's very kind of you, but I assure you we Butlers don't photography very well, m'am. You needn't got to the trouble…"

"Enough – Don't be absurd," she said dismissively. "Come along now, Junior. I'll take the camera."

And so the Butlers, who were far more used to following unusual requests of varyingly _different_ manners, organised themselves into a line, whilst the matriarch of the Fowl family fussed and flapped her hands around, trying to align them all together with her gestures.

"Put your hands on the boy's shoulder, Butler – no, _no_ , not like that it looks like you're strangling him – does nobody around here have a clue about photography?"

 _I like photography. It's the only activity where you can shoot people and cut off their heads without it being frowned upon…_ one of his classmates had once said that during a surveillance photography lesson. Then again, she was borderline psychotic, the only female student currently at The Academy and found it a downright insult to even refer to her as such. The _latter_ of those two labels, he might add. She was perfectly accepting of the former. Dom thought he probably shouldn't bring that up.

"There – like The Major is doing – there, that's it. _Don't move!_ "

The flash dazzled Domovoi slightly, but he smiled all the same. He felt a strange pride. A sense of utmost belonging.

"There. Excellent. All done! I do love a good family photo, don't you darling?" Vivienne said to her husband.

"Yes dear. Quite. I am most looking forward to getting them developed. Aren't you, Butler?"

His bodyguard did not look quite so enthused, but nodded and thanked the Fowl couple again all the same.

Dom's nod was more genuine. His mother would love that photo.

* * *

After their new belongings were taken to their various new sites of storage – carried upstairs by their manservants, of course – the Fowls readied themselves for their traditional Christmas Day walk of the manor grounds. The Butlers, permanently in a state of readiness, gathered in the kitchen. The majority of the food had been prepared by the catering staff the day before – the smell of turkey roasting in the oven could attest to that – however there were always some additional touches the bodyguards liked to make. They were, after all, fully trained in the art of Cordon Bleu cooking.

Domovoi was sat on a stool watching his grandfather closely as he put the finishing touches to the Christmas cake he was decorating. His uncle had disappeared upstairs with a mutter about helping Artemis find his extremely underused walking boots.

"Less is more sometimes, boy. Remember that," the old bodyguard said, sliding the cake to one side and bringing out a tray of vegetables to prepare. "Unless it's bullets, of course. Then _more_ is almost always the better option. Unless they're in your person."

"Present for you, lad," The Major said, interrupting them as he stepped through the door.

Dom looked up, surprised. They usually opened their presents in the evening after the elders' duties with the Fowls reached the night-time lull. But it was an envelope that the man tossed onto the table. Dom snapped his hand down on it before it could skid over the edge.

On it was the full address of Fowl Manor, above that was merely 'Butler'. He was momentarily confused. He recognised the handwriting, but he could not think where... He checked the post stamp, but it had been over-stamped several times, making it hard to read the origin. His subconscious realised where it was from, even before he flipped it over and saw the embossed symbol on the back. A diamond. The symbol of toughness and the multifaceted nature of his training...

His stomach clenched slightly.

"Well. Go on - open it," The Major said, taking a seat opposite him and folding his hands together, elbows on the table.

Alexandr glanced over his shoulder and gave a low snort, going back to the vegetables with a slight shake of his head.

Dom swallowed, patting his pocket for his penknife and slid the blade along the short edge of the envelope. Efficiency at all times, after all. It was quicker to open it this way and the envelope would later serve much better again as a container for the documents inside. And they were important documents.

He pinched the paper, pulling it out cleaning in one swift movement and turning it horizontally. On the top was his surname, first initial, Academy Identification Number and his year group.

He held lightly. The next unfolding of the paper would tell him how he had been viewed over the past six months. Tutors, Senseis and even Madam Ko herself would give give the students verbal feedback constantly, of course, but written reports were mailed home only twice a year.

"Come on – stop looking at it like it's going to explode, boy. How have you d…"

"Myles," Xandr sighed. "Let the boy take his time. God knows you were nervous enough opening your reports. Have a little patience, man."

His son scowled, but refrained from disgracing himself further by tapping his foot whilst he waited for his nephew to read the information.

Dom shot him an apologetic look for being the cause of his rebuke and flipped open the sheet of paper.

* * *

 ** _F.A.O: A. Butler, M. Butler, B. Butler, T. Brady_**

 ** _Butler, D.  
291641  
Tier 3_**

 ** _Assessed Skills_**

 _Physical Combat (unarmed) – **E**  
Physical Combat (armed) – **E**  
Concealment (physical) – **E**  
Concealment (identity) – **G**  
Marksmanship – **R**  
Culinary Skills – **G**  
Information Technology – **G**  
Emergency Medicine – **G**  
Mechanical Engineering – **R**  
Languages – **G**_

 _ **Overall grade:**_ ** _R_**

 ** _Comments:_**

 _The tutors inform me that this boy is one who will follow orders to the death, although not always to the letter. What he lacks in conformity, he makes up for with dedication, determination and quick-thinking in situations which require improvisation. In future this may be an asset. For the time being, however, he would do better to follow the instruction of his superiors. In order to improve, the student must focus on his less physical skillset in order to bring the rest of his grades in line with those classes he clearly enjoys most. You will be unsurprised to hear the boy is a credit to his home tutorage and we look forward to welcoming him back to The Academy this coming year._

 _Regards,_

 ** _M. Ko_**

 ** _Verdict_** : _Progression. Acceptance to Tier 4 Achieved._

* * *

It was all that was on the single sheet, but it was enough.

He had not only done fairly well in his classes, he had also done well enough to proceed to the next tier of his training. Meaning he was well on his way to equalling – if not exceeding – his uncle and father's record of achieving their Blue Diamond tattoos at the age of nineteen. Still, he thought an 'R' in marksmanship was a little harsh. He flicked his eyes back to the comments section. The word 'conformity' stood out and he scowled, realising she'd probably docked him for his elbow. She'd always hated the way his left elbow cocked out when he was aiming, but even Madam Ko couldn't object to the fact that he hit the target with a 90% accuracy rate. Then again, Ko disliked percentages. She refused to use them in her grading, for it suggested that a student's training had a finite point. In order to succeed, a student should maintain and continue their training throughout their lives. Even graduation from The Academy was merely a stepping-stone to greatness. No, instead she used her own unique grading system. A categorical progression, the gradings were as follows:

 ** _Unacceptable_** – where the student would not be invited back to The Academy.

 ** _Poor_** – which spoke for itself.

 ** _Substandard_** – meaning the student was performing below the level expected of their tier group and could be in danger of receiving a 'Regression' verdict, which invited them back to train but under the conditions they were demoted to the previous tier.

 ** _Acceptable_** – nothing special, but the student would be allowed to remain on the same tier the following year.

 ** _Good_** – which was the minimum grade for consideration a 'Progression' verdict, at the tutor's discretion.

 ** _Remarkable_** – which stated that the student was performing in way which stood out as better than others or than was expected of them for their age or tier group.

 ** _Exceptional_** – the student was consistently performing above their age or tier group to the point where a 'Progression' verdict was necessary to further their training.

 ** _Outstanding_** – a grade which was really only achievable by the elite and rarely given out below assessment age.

The Major had had enough and silently gestured behind his father's back for Domovoi to make some motion as to how he had done. A nod, a smile, anyth...

" _Myles_ …" Alexandr drawled, once again adding fuel to the theory he could see out of the back of his head.

Dom flicked his eyes up to watch his uncle grind his teeth for a few seconds, then smiled self-consciously and handed over the paper.

The Major speed-read it, dark eyes flicking back and forth, his head tilting occasionally in contemplation. Dom was fairly sure he knew which part the man had reached when he gave a smirk and an approving nod and he must have been right about him smiling at the 'home tutorage' part, for it was barely a second or so later that he dropped the letter back onto the table.

"An 'R' in Mechanics. Good to see you've been paying attention."

"Always do," the boy shrugged.

This year he had spent many an evening in the garages being shown the more detailed workings of an engine by his uncle. Clearly it had paid off. Knowing the man's affinity for cars, he'd have him rebuilding one entirely by next summer.

Alexandr, despite his earlier chastisement of his subordinate for his lack of patience, turned just half-way around – almost as though he wasn't _really_ anxious to read the inked words – and scooped up the paper before it had even settled on the wood.

The Major could barely keep from _grinning_. It was embarrassing, really. A man of his status should not be acting so positively _mawkish_ about his nephew's grades, yet here he was. Beaming like a proud... well, _father -_ as much as he sincerely rebuffed being referred to as such.

Dom looked first to him, then to his grandfather for approval. The silence was deafening.

"Well," Xandr said eventually. "Are you happy?"

Domovoi shrugged. "A bit."

" _A bit_? Come now, boy – your uncle here wasn't pulling five 'G-pluses' until he was fifteen."

"Ah now that's not true," his son protested. "I got seven 'R's at Tier Five."

"Out of fifteen grades. The rest were 'G's, were they not?"

"What? No – I had at least three 'E's and an 'O' in Physical C…"

"Well there you have it. The boy has three 'E's already. And two 'R's. He's half-way to smashing your record before he's even a T-4."

The Major muttered something that sounded a lot like "I said _at least_ …" but he shut up. His father was mocking him again. And in reality, it was only to boost the lad's ego. He had done very well – and, although it pained him to admit it, was indeed mostly succeeding his predecessor's grades thus far in his training. If asked, Myles would put it down to his 'home tutorage' of course. But in reality, he would also have to admit that young Domovoi was the best natural fighter he had ever seen. He would ask his father, but the man would likely never admit who he thought had been better at this age. Or at least when not in jest. And so The Major would allow his mild ridiculing as the expense of his nephew's praise. He was fairly sure the boy would ignore all of his better grades anyway and focus on the fact that he had…

"Only got an 'R' in marksmanship though. Pretty shit given I was practicing all summer…"

 _Well, that._

"Only? Give yourself a break, m'boy. You know what Ko is like. She probably just doesn't like your style. You father had the exact same thing – what was it, Myles. The angle of his shoulder?"

"Elbow," his youngest son corrected. "Used to cock it out something chronic. She's always say he'd get it…"

"… shot off in a firefight," Dom finished under his breath. Although in a family with exceptional hearing, there was no such thing as saying something out-loud which you didn't quite want to be heard.

"Exactly," his uncle said with a snort. "I take it it's a genetic trait."

"Nonsense. It's a habit. I can train it out of you, if you like, boy?"

Dom shrugged. "I can't shoot better than an 'A' grade if I tuck it in."

"Beck was the same, remember?" Myles noted to his father and the man rolled his eyes.

"I certainly do."

Dom wasn't quite sure how to feel being compared to a man he had never met, so he said nothing. It weirded him out enough that his father's name still featured on the 'For Attention Of' section of his report - and before his mothers at that. It would continue to, too. Or at least until the man was proven dead. The term 'Dead In Absentia' didn't wash with Madam Ko.

His uncle sensed his disquiet and changed the subject.

"No 'A's here though, I see," he said, checking his watch and getting to his feet with a proud smile.

"No sir," Domovoi confirmed, hiding his own grin.

The Major tucked his chair back under the table and made for the door of the kitchen – presumably to check Artemis was changed into suitable outdoor gear and had not, as he strongly suspected, become distracted setting up his new computer.

"That's m'boy," he said in his usual gruff manner, scruffing a thick palm roughly over his nephew's head as he passed.

The door closed with a quiet click behind him.

"I was right last night," Alexandr said with a quiet snort of derision. "You really do bring out the positively _sentimental_ in him."

"I know. I wonder where he gets it from?" said the boy airily. "Shouldn't really have a soppy bone in his body…"

"I do hope you're not being insolent, Kingdom," the old bodyguard said warningly, closing the door to the oven sharply behind the tray of vegetables.

"Not at all Pa," he grinned innocently. "I wouldn't dare."

"You're damn right you wouldn't," his grandfather growled. "Now go on – off with you. Get suited and booted before the Fowls get their collective acts together – I want you on top form today. With the snow about I'll need you to keep an extra eye out for hazards, understood?"

"Yessir," Domovoi said brightly, heeding the order and sliding off his chair, leaving his in a slightly _less_ tidy manner than his uncle had, and disappearing out of the door.

Alexandr waited until he had gone – practically _scampering_ – upstairs, before he collected up the abandoned report and tucked it safely back into its envelope. If anyone had been in the kitchen, they might just have noticed he had more than just the _air_ of a proud grandfather about him. He put the envelope in his inside pocket, patting it – just twice – to check it was secure. Later, in the privacy of his room where there were no prying eyes or mocking mouths, he would take out a large file from its resting place in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. Its cover was marked with the word 'Offspring'. Then he would perhaps flick through it, past the two other complete collections, before sliding the report behind the other half a dozen written documents he had for Domovoi, including his entrance assessment report, in the section marked 'Grandson'.

 _'Wonder where he gets it from' indeed,_ he thought to himself with a shake of his head _. Sentimental old fool._

He smiled.

* * *

"Come now, son. It really isn't that cold. In fact, it's quite invigorating once you get out here!"

"Father, as much as I would like to take your verdict as gospel, your lips appear to be a shade of _blue_ ," the Fowl heir drawled scathingly.

His father frowned, looking to his bodyguard who gave a minute tilt of his head to indicate that yes, the boy was right and actually, they really should get moving before he was forced to abandon the whole expedition due to risk of frostbite. And after nearly forty years of partnership, such a suggestion really _could_ be conveyed in such a small gesture.

"Now don't be ridiculous," Eugene Fowl said, all the same. "You know how your mother and I dislike your being cantankerous, Artemis, get down here immediately. A walk will do you good and then you can return to your blasted computer games."

"The latest of my _blasted computers_ which you gifted me with this morning, may I remind you," Artemis said, admitting defeat anyway and closing the door behind him as he began to descend the stairs. His own bodyguard locked it behind them and followed. "And they are not _games_ they are…"

"Come along now – keep up!"

The Fowl patriarch linked arms with his wife and strode forth with purpose. Just behind, the eldest and youngest Butlers tailed the couple like shadows.

The grounds of Fowl Manor were coated in snow. A crystal-like blanket extending as far as the eye could see. The walls, the trees, the - presently empty - gamekeeper's lodgings... all had their own perfect topping. The temperature preserving the snow at its best thus far. It was all rather beautiful really. Not that he would be admitting that outloud. Artemis sighed, an errant strand of his chin-length hair tickling his cheek.

"Honestly, Major. Why _does_ he insist on this foolish tradition? I'm sure mother wouldn't be upset if he gave it up. In fact, I suspect she would agree with me and be quite _pleased_."

"Now, now, Artemis. It is Christmas," his bodyguard chastised gently. "Humour him."

" _Humour him_ indeed…" the teenager muttered. "Oh yes, I must admit it is all very _humorous_ trudging across the grounds to _appreciate_ our fortune. I for one would rather _appreciate_ it whilst simultaneously _appreciating_ how _fortunate_ we are to have double-glazed windows and central heating."

"It's important to spend time with your family," The Major said sincerely.

"So I am told. But I still do not understand the reasoning behind it having to be outside. Surely we can spend time together indoors, where there is a much lower risk of contracting hypothermia."

"Artemis…" The Major said in a tone he employed when he thought his charge was being unreasonable. "Walking together; it's at the very core of forming and maintaining bonds."

"Well that's all very fine and well for wolves, maybe. Or elephants. As human beings, surely we should be bashing rocks together attempting to make a fire if we really _must_ be so _Neanderthalic_ about of family excursions…"

The Major gave a slight shake of his head. The boy amused him with his mixed up ways of childish frustration and adult maturity.

"You'll understand when you're his age."

"Feeling nostalgic this morning, are we?" his charge accused.

"Well, it is Christmas," the man repeated, with a small smile. "Once a year shouldn't kill me."

"Once a year indeed," Artemis scoffed knowingly. "And do stop using the season as an excuse! If I hear _'well it is Christmas'_ once more today, I'm afraid I shall have to ask to borrow one of your handguns."

The Major snorted. "So you can do what, exactly, young master? Shoot yourself in the foot?"

Artemis looked at him sharply and for a moment The Major thought he should probably have kept that last comment to himself, but the boy sniffed deeply, averting his gaze to watch his parents, some way ahead by now and abominably frivolous in light of the snowy scenes surrounding them.

"I shall forgive that severe lapse of respect on account that; it is indeed Christmas."

The Major's mouth twitched. He noticed his principal neglected to acknowledge the fact he could not shoot a target for love nor money.

"Thank-you, sir. Most gracious of you."

Artemis leered at him. "I do hope I do not detect an air of sarcasm about you, Major?"

"Not at all, sir," the man said innocuously.

"Good."

It was not long before Fowl Senior was calling his son to _'Hurry up!'_ once more and they approached the woodlands which marked the half-way point of their journey. Alexandr sent his grandson ahead to scout the trees for hostiles. It was all very ceremonious, of course. He doubted there would be so much as a fox out in these chilly temperatures, but it didn't pay not to be cautious. And besides, the boy could use the exercise after being cooped up all morning.

"Do you not sometimes feel like being a bit more like Junior there, son? You know, running about an all?" Eugene asked his son as he finally fell into step alongside his parents.

"What on Earth do you mean? He looks like a spaniel that's just been let off its lead! No I certainly do not," Artemis said haughtily as the Butler boy all-but _bounded_ from tree to tree hunting the undergrowth for threats.

"Ha – did you hear that, Butler? Artemis here is calling your boy a dog!"

"Dogs have their merits, sir," the elder Butler said affably.

"I for one am rather glad to have you as you are, Timmy," Vivienne said, taking her son's arm.

"Thank-you, Mother."

"Although perhaps a little outdoor activity would do you good. You are looking a little peaky, darling."

"Peaky? Mother it's minus four degrees centigrade and Father insists we endure this ridiculous parade – of course my complexion leaves something to be desired at this present moment!"

Vivienne stopped short of laughing at her son for his outburst and squeezed his elbow close to her. "It was just a suggestion, sweetheart."

"Yes and may I return a suggestion that winter is not the time to begin such activities and I will remind you to book a fantastically _outdoor_ holiday to a beach somewhere off the coast of California, if you so very much insist on exposing my skin to UV rays."

"Eugene, are we not blessed to have such a witty son?" his mother said, amused.

"Indeed. Even if he does sit in his room all day with his computer games."

"They are not _games_ , Father!" Artemis repeated hotly.

"I know, I know, you do not play _games_. You are far too serious for all that now."

"Father I am _seventeen_. I am very much looking forward to using my new computer to track my finances and…"

"Finances? Good Lord, anyone would think you were the heir to an empire…"

The good-natured bickering continued until they reached a clearing where Vivienne immediately drew the procession to a halt to _'admire the beauty'_ of the pristine snow.

"And look – animal tracks! Oh wouldn't it be romantic to build a snowman, Eugene?"

Her husband, in all honesty, could not think of much more less 'romantic' than freezing ones hands to create a figure out of snow.

"Darling, must we? We'll have to cut short our walk if we stop now…"

She looked at him endearingly and he sighed. That's what manservants were for, after all.

"Men – assemble! My good lady wife desires a snowman."

The Major looked to his father and the man shrugged.

"As you wish, sir," he said, following the words with a sharp whistle which had Domovoi appearing from the treeline in moments.

"Yessir?" he said enquiringly, as he drew to a sudden halt.

"Snowman, Junior," his grandfather said shortly. "We require one immediately."

"A… snowman, sir?"

"That's right – hop to it, young chap!" Mr Fowl ordered him.

Domovoi looked amusingly bemused at the bizarre order, but obediently dropped to a crouch and began forming a ball of snow with his bare hands.

Artemis shuddered.

"You too, son – you can help Junior in making the middle section of the body. Your mother and I shall create the head and, well, we best leave the largest section and the heavy lifting to the big boys, shan't we?"

Eugene gave the orders as though he was commanding a small army – which he supposed he was – and all but his least-willing troop-man set about forming the snow into compact balls and rolling them through the clearing. Alexandr left his son too it and set about flattening an area of snow for the base whilst the adult Fowls squabbled over the best way to create a rounded head and Artemis… well he followed Junior about whilst protesting the ridiculousness of it all.

"I mean _really_ , Junior? This is preposterous. The man is a prestigious member of the criminal underworld and here he is gallivanting around like a child…"

Domovoi shrugged, heaving the steadily growing snowball another few metres. "Nobody else needs to know. He should be able to relax a bit when he's about his family."

"It's ludicrous. I swear the man gets more and more sentimental every Christmas. It was bad enough with the photo shoot by the fountain last year. If only his fellow businessmen could see him now…"

"But they can't, so come on. You heard him. Help me with this thing," the young Butler said in a no-nonsense fashion.

"Fine. Although I have no idea _why_ …"

"It's just for fun."

"Fun? Junior, I beg to differ. _This_ is not _fun_."

Domovoi smirked. "Tim, you wouldn't know fun if it snowballed you in the face."

"Oh go on then – do enlighten me," the Fowl said haughtily. "What exactly could be found _entertaining_ about this set-up?"

"Well… Since we're on the topic – you _could_ throw a snowball at my uncle. That would be fun."

"You think?"

"Yeah," Dom shrugged.

"Then please, be my guest and demonstrate," Artemis said, with a vampiric smile.

The budding bodyguard snorted. "And have to do three hundred press-ups in the snow? No thanks."

"Pssht. And I thought you Butlers were supposed to be bold."

"I _am_ bold. I'm just not bloody stupid."

"Moments ago you were chastising me for my unapparent sense of fun – now where's yours?" said the youngest Fowl, eyes daring him to agree to his terms. "Go on. You suggested it."

Domovoi gave their surroundings a furtive glance, scraping a handful of snow and moulding it quickly. "Fine. But you better help me look busy as hell when it hits him."

Artemis looked over. The Major was some twenty metres away with his back to their position.

" _If_ , it hits him."

" _When_ ," the latest of the Butler line scoffed, and launched the snowball.

He turned around immediately, for he did not need to see the icy explosion as the missile impacted with his uncle's broad back. He heard it land well enough, although The Major was too well-trained to make a noise of surprise and so Artemis was disappointed on that front. He too turned quickly to make it look as though he was assisting with the aggregation of the 'middle body section' of the snowman, but could not resist a glance over his shoulder. A mistake, for The Major was staring right at him, his eyes searching for culpability.

Artemis smiled. "Alright, I'll admit. This snowman business is all rather fun once you get into it."

His bodyguard frowned and turned away.

"See, Tim? I told you you would enjoy yourself!" Eugene said, elated at his son's admission and grinning as he 'helped' his bodyguard to flatten the snow whilst Vivienne Fowl collected twigs and leaves as decoration for their finished 'head'.

"Yes, yes, Father. Very good. You were right once again," Artemis drawled, before turning back to the Butler boy.

"What were you doing turning around like that?! You almost got me caught!" he hissed.

" _You_ caught? Surely it would be the pair of us," Artemis corrected.

"What? No of course not."

"Why do you say?"

"Two reasons," Dom said with a raised eyebrow. "One: He wouldn't blame you for anything. Two: You couldn't throw a snowball that distance if you tried."

"What?" the Fowl scoffed. "Don't be preposterous. I could throw something that far."

"Fine. Not that accurately though."

Artemis glanced over again. The Major was closer to the point at which the snowman would stand now. Closer to _them_.

"I could too – just you watch me…"

Dom thought this was probably not one of the older boy's better ideas, but given the long list of ideas which were _worse_ that he had participated in during his long-standing position as junior bodyguard to the Fowl heir, he decided to let this one slide.

Artemis scraped the snow together into something that vaguely resembled a sphere, then stood as though he were a bowler at a cricket ground. With a little bit of help from physics, he should be able too…

The snowball sailed through the air, both teenagers tracking its path as it tumbled off its due course and impacted with…

" _Oof_!"

This time, both boys were still looking when The Major turned round. But of course it was not he who had given sharp exhalation of alarm.

"Oh shit," Artemis cringed.

"Artemis Fowl! Was that you?" his father exclaimed, outraged.

"Ah…" Artemis said, looking to his companion for support.

"Alright, so you _can_ throw..." the Butler boy admitted with a wolfish grin. "Just not in any given direction."

"Junior! That was the moment you were supposed to take the blame!"

"Not. A. _Chance_ ," he laughed. "You're on your own. _I_ didn't get caught."

 _Didn't get caught, eh?_ thought The Major, easily piecing together the turn of events.

His nephew balked in realisation of what he had just admitted liability for, repeating his fellow perpetrator's earlier expletive.

"Allow me, sir," The Major said to his employer. "If you will?"

"Certainly, Major – return the attack with merciless ferocity!"

"As you wish, sir," he said, bending low to collect a snowball.

"Cover!" Dom yelped, diving behind the larger one they had been creating and dragging Artemis with him as the projectiles began to come thick and fast.

"Well this was a stupid idea," the Fowl said, lying on his belly next to the Butler as the snowballs whistled overhead.

"Yes – and as usual, it was _yours_! Now help me build up some ammo!"

"As usual?" Artemis asked, but he had to admit the accusation was true. "Well, I suppose..."

"Snowballs - quickly!"

"We're going to return fire?"

" _I'm_ going to return fire. _You're_ going to make the ammo."

The Fowl boy couldn't very well argue with that either.

"Are you sure fighting back is the best response?" he asked, cramming snow together in his hands, despite his earlier reservations.

"Well I sure as shit ain't going to sit here and get hammered," Dom grinned.

The next few minutes were spent dodging The Major's well-aimed missiles and trying to roll their 'cover' of the large snowball towards fresh snow in order to keep up the return without being hit. It was going well for their opposing team right up until Eugene joined in and ultimately hit his own bodyguard in the back of the head with a badly-formed snowball that deposited itself down the collar of his jacket.

"I _do_ apologise, Butler! I have to say that was a rather mal-aimed throw," he said of his friendly-fire incident. "Although admittedly, one could also describe it as a very _well_ -aimed throw if it had been my intention… Although of course, it was not!"

The bodyguard scraped out his collar, flicking the ice gently towards his charge. "Yes – very good aim, sir. I can see where your son gets his marksmanship."

"And I yours, of course," Eugene said, clearly going for 'appeasement'. "He really is giving the boys their due. Although I think he better stop soon or else we'll never finish this damn snowman."

Alexandr agreed, signing the ceasefire to his son and calling out in his booming tones.

"Alright – truce! As the losers, you can do the washing up after dinner."

"Losers?!" came the haughty response. "Surely as the forfeiters you should be the ones…"

But there was a moments furtive whispering where the younger boy swiftly justified the terms of the armistice and the older had to admit defeat. It could be worse.

"After discussion with my comrade, I accept your terms. Although I renegotiate that as commanding officer I shall send my captain to carry out the forfeiture."

There was a sharp cry of surprise as the 'commanding officer' received his own penalty for that remark, but the pair of them soon made their way over, pushing the snowball ahead of them.

It took some lifting and manoeuvring, for snow is heavier than it looks when compacted into the components of a snowman, but with the elder Butlers lifting the pieces between them for minimal risk of disintegration, the body and head were positioned atop the massive ball of snow The Major had collected. At last, Vivienne was content, arranging her decorations into a face as she pleased and standing back to admire their handiwork.

"Well just look at that! Isn't he marvellous?"

"Quite," Eugene agreed. "But look at the time, too! We shan't be able to visit the fountain this year if we don't hurry…"

"Sir…" Alexandr said gently, placing a hand on his charge's shoulder. "Perhaps we should give the fountain a miss this year? We want to be getting back before it gets too dark."

Eugene sagged slightly under his palm, but admitted defeat. "Alright, alright. We'll return to the manor. I must say I have enjoyed this. Perhaps, alongside yourselves joining our family photo, we should make it a tradition…"

Artemis groaned audibly and the laughed at him.

Together, the group turned their back on the snowman and began to head back to the manor. The Major took point, scanning the darkening grounds as he lead the way and it was Vivienne who brought up the rear, glancing back at their creation with fondness.

"Keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't fall too far behind," Alexandr said quietly to his nephew, taking up a position in the middle of the group.

Domovoi obeyed him. Dropping back under the guise of tying his bootlace.

"Are you alright there, Junior?" she asked him as she stepped past.

"Yes m'am. Perfectly fine. And yourself?" he said, rising and setting off at a much more sedentary pace than he would have liked.

"Very well, thank-you," she said, a smile still brightening her features. "I haven't seen my boys have such fun in years!"

Dom gave a small smile of agreement. He wanted to thank the woman for her earlier act of kindness with the family photo, but he wasn't sure how best to put it without making it sound as though he thought she was being unusually so.

"Ah, Missus Fowl?"

"Yes?"

"I meant to say before… Erm… Thank-you. You know. For taking our picture. I know it'll mean a lot to my ma… to my mother."

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Junior. That was nothing. The least I could do. Call it a Christmas gift."

"Well I thought it was very nice of you and all that. Especially since I haven't got anything for you."

"Oh I don't need gifts! I have plenty of those. And better than that, I have my family. Besides, you _did_ give me something today. You gave me my son laughing and smiling and playing with his father again. And that, my dear boy, is priceless."

With that she quickened her step somewhat and for a moment Dom fell behind, a true smile breaking on his face. Usually he found the woman to be quite dismissive in her treatment of him and his family, but it seemed that beyond the layers of aristocracy, she did at least appreciate them. And it would seem, in fact, that she was rather wise. He followed the group, glancing back occasionally at the woodland behind them, but they made it back to the welcoming heat of the manor without incident. Once inside, the Fowls revelled in the warmth whilst the Butlers took their coats and thus the balance was returned almost to normal. Almost, for soon after he had changed and warmed himself up, Artemis invited Domovoi to come to his study and help set up his new computer.

By the time The Major went to call them down for Christmas Dinner, the weather was worsening outside once more. Snow fluttered down past the windows and he shut the thick curtain against the perceived chill. It should only be the glass that was cold, of course, but something about the blast-proof, thick material was comforting all the same.

He made his way down the corridor to his charge's study, from which a thin beam of warm light was emitting from under the door.

And although of course he would never tell Eugene Fowl, by the exclamations of;

"Press that key on my mark – we need to time it right or he'll destroy us again."

Followed by;

"Oh come on – trust me. I can judge when to deploy a weapon – watch out for that alien!"

And;

"I _am_ watching – you're supposed to be shooting at it whilst I steer!"

The Major suspected the two teenagers inside were not using the new computer for anything to do with finances after all.

* * *

Outside in the snow, a man spat on the floor, rolling away from his sniper rifle at last. He had waited the required hour of non-movement after the last noticeable sign that he was alone. This was supposed to be an easy job. Well, getting through the security system hadn't been. But this part should have been a cinch. Same route every year, he had been told. Bollocks. The closest the group had come to him was within earshot. And that wasn't saying much given the crisp, calm conditions. He had considered moving, but his hide had taken an hour to construct and he was not about to break cover when it meant going up against two Blue Diamonds – and Butlers at that. It would be suicide…

He pulled out a walkie-talkie.

"No show," he said into it. "I'm switching to plan B."

"You'd better. I want this job done, Clarke. And done _right_."

"Yes sir. Over and Out."

The would-be assassin pocketed the device and with it his employer's displeasure and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, turning his back on the manor as he lit one. God only knew when those Butlers would glance out the window and the way his luck was going, it would be at the exact inopportune moment to inexplicably catch a glimpse of the tiny spark.

He had missed them today, but their time was coming, he thought as he took a long drag of smoke. He would see to that.

* * *

 **OK, I apologise if that was riddled with mistakes. I've only read over it once since it was written - which is not a lot for me. Think three times minimum and you're closer to the mark. I also add shit every single time I re-read so at 8,000 words I thought I'd better not do that this time anyway haha**

 *****IMPORTANT QUESTION TO ASK YOU ALL! Or, well, those of you who have made it this far. Because you're the ones that are reading, after all. So. The next chapter billed for this fic is rather... dark. I'm saying this about a fic with child-abuse in it, but what I mean is, it's a violent jerk from the silliness in this chapter. It involves blood, gore, torture, murder... If I promise you it isn't at all what you think and in reality it isn't *that* bad... And it will all be alright in the end. Given all that, are you all OK with me posting it? Because it's your opinions that matter to me, to be honest. I'll repeat the warning at the top, but it will probably be the darkest thing you've read from me. I mean, there is definitely worse out here, but I didn't want to throw it at you whilst you're all still happily bobbing along to the gruff!fluff...*****

 **So yeah... let me know if you care. It can be censored and/or skipped over if it bothers enough people. I'd just thought I'd ask because I'm sticking with the 'T' rating and I'd really rather nobody kicked off. Not you guys, of course. You guys are awesome. But some people might not be as cool with it.**

 **Right, I'm off hiking snowy mountains. Should be excellent fic research given the weather forecast. So presuming I don't get stuck up there, I should be getting back to you all with review replies and updates in a couple of days :)**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**


	9. Chapter 8: Foreshadow

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, P.S. Sword, Guest, Readergirl99, Jolinnn, Steinbock, write that wrong, Kath, Sana Lama Samaha (x3) and SidesOfLife for the reviews - which I kept getting the notifications for in pockets of 3G signal, but was unable to read until I got back! Every single one was definitely worth the wait, so thank-you all :)**

 **And to: blue candlelight 13 for the follow and SidesOfLife for the follow and fave.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE CHECK PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 ***** PLEASE NOTE: EXTRA WARNINGS APPLY FOR THIS CHAPTER *****

 **Scenes of torture, murder, general dark themes. Please take note if you think this may affect you.  
** **This chapter is relatively short and can be skipped. Any later references to the happenings of this chapter that may be required will be mild.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHT – Foreshadow**

 _ **A foreboding forewarning; advanced caution of an upcoming event**_

 **Several Days After Christmas, Undisclosed Location**

"Dom? Open your eyes for me, boy. Look at me."

Domovoi felt as though his eyelids had been smeared with cement, but he managed to crack them open with a bit of stubborn determination.

He was in a darkened room… A large room. Maybe a warehouse. Not too far away was a shape, hanging from... A rope? No. A chain. A long protrusion which linked to a wider part that then trailed, lumpily, into two tail-like projections reaching down for the floor…

"That's it. Good lad. _Good_ lad."

He blinked. The Major was helping him sit up out of the recovery position he had been left in, holding him by the elbow. In his other hand, he held a short, dark blade Dom recognised as one of his uncle's shrike throwing knives.

The thing hanging from the ceiling was making strange sucking, gurgling sounds. He frowned at it, but his eyes refused to focus beyond his uncle's concerned face. The man was bleeding from a wound near his temple. Whatever he had been hit with had burst the skin open - wide and deep. Dom was fairly sure he could see bone glimmering through the split. He reached a hand up to touch it…

"Leave it. It's nothing. I'll wear it with pride as a reminder," The Major said, giving the usual Butler quip when it came to scars. He caught the reaching hand, squeezing his nephew's fist closed gently.

The normally crisp, white sleeves of his customary suit were rolled up to the elbows, the folded cuffs tight around his thick forearms. The buttons down the front were undone - no, ripped? He wasn't sure. Either way it revealed his undervest, spattered with... Well, both his normally pristinely-white vest and shirt were soaked in patches of browned-crimson. It didn't take a detective to work out what _that_ was.

"Don't you worry yourself about me, boy," his uncle continued. "How are _you_ feeling?"

Dom considered this, confusion clouding his judgement. His neck hurt. Every time he inhaled it was as though someone was squeezing his throat. Swallowing was worse.

He nodded, trying to speak. His voice came out in a cracked whisper. "Nothing… permanent."

He winced, rubbing at his Adam's apple.

"Hush. That's going to hurt for a bit, but you're safe now."

The boy had loose memories of what had landed him here. A vicious pressure on his throat lifting instantly with a scream. A wrenching crack. Shouting. Screaming. Sounds of muscle and flesh clashing together...

"Safe?" he croaked.

"I promised you, didn't I?" his uncle said with a smile.

 _Promised what?_ Dom thought.

"And I saved him for you, too. Just like I said I would," The Major said, sounding as pleased with himself as a gun-dog bringing a pheasant back to its master. "Here."

He flicked the knife over casually in his hand, stooping and offering the boy its handle.

Dom took it uncertainly.

"It's alright if you don't want to. I just thought... well, you know," he shrugged. "I'd give you the option. Given the circumstances. I can finish the job if you don't feel up to it. Just say."

He stood, helping Dom with him and striding over to the thing hanging from the ceiling. Dom realised then that he couldn't actually _see_ the ceiling; only darkness above. He thought they probably were in some sort of warehouse, but he couldn't be sure. The roof must have been so _high_ … It made him dizzy looking up, so he closed his eyes.

"Wake up!" The Major barked suddenly.

It took Dom a startled second to realise the roiling aggression wasn't aimed at him. It wasn't that his uncle had ever directed such fury his way - he certainly never had - it was just that he didn't think there was anyone else in the room to be addressed...

"Time's up, you snivelling piece of shit!" he snarled, delivering a punishing blow to the dead-weight on the end of the chain.

And that was when Dom realised what – or rather _who_ – was hanging by one ankle from the iron links disappearing up to the invisible ceiling.

He reeled back, the gasp caught in his swollen throat making him choke. The Major turned to him – all trace of the merciless captor vanishing in an instant as he placed a hand on his shoulder with an uncharacteristic amount of concern.

"You OK, lad? Just breathe. _Breathe_. That's it."

Dom nodded, studying the battered face. It may have been damaged and upside-down, but it was unmistakable all the same. He swallowed, the pain reminding him of the very same leering eyes inches from his, the pleasure glinting in them as he crushed the life out of his victim…

"Gonna kill me, Dommy-boy?" Paul coughed, spitting blood and what could have been a tooth onto the floor.

The hand on the knife clenched tight and Dom's mouth curled into a disgusted snarl.

"Give it up, son. You don't have the guts," Paul drawled. His voice strangely clear for one in his condition.

"I am _not_ your _son_!" Dom spat savagely.

One of the man's hands flashed up from its limp hanging and Dom leapt backwards out of range. Paul laughed, despite the swing his movement caused, causing screaming agony to flood from his broken leg a moment later. Dom dropped his gaze to the grimy floor. He was a coward. How could he be afraid of this man when…

"Yeah that's what I thought," Paul panted once he'd stopped screaming. "You always have been a spineless little…"

 _Thud, crack._

The laughter became tortured cries once again.

"Go on. Finish that sentence," The Major said angrily, dropping to both feet again. And then when Paul said nothing coherent: "Yeah. That's what _I_ thought."

The Major dealt him another spinning kick to the abdomen, as simply as if the man was a punchbag.

Paul screamed louder with every blow, this time begging The Major to stop, thrashing like a shark on a line.

"Apologise," the larger man growled, once Paul had subsided into hitched breathing.

All of the arrogance the hateful man had once had, had vanished. He was crying now. Choking on his own bloody snot. Domovoi felt no pity for him.

" _Ap-olo-gise_ ," The Major snarled again.

"Alright, _alright_ – I'm …I'm sorry…" he sobbed.

"To the boy. Properly."

Paul looked like he'd rather chew off his own leg, but as he swung there, barely audibly, he spat out the words.

"I'm… _sorry_."

"For what?" The Major demanded.

"For… everything... I've ever done... to you."

"And for his mother?"

Dom's heart clenched. What had happened to his mother? Why couldn't he remember? He looked around panickedly.

"I'm sorry… for what I did… to your mother," Paul panted.

"Finally," The Major said lightly. "You did something half-decent with your scumbag life. Always nice to end on a high. Quit while you're ahead, and all."

He gave him another kick regardless. There was another crack and Paul's reaction echoed around the space. Dom realised he couldn't see the walls either. But they _must_ be there for that sort of echo to bounce back, his nurtured bodyguarding side reasoned, completely detached from the scene playing out before him. That would be useful in the future.

"Hmm. Best be quick, Dom. I don't think that leg will hold his fat arse up much longer," The Major said, matter-of-factly. "Save me a job when I'm dismembering the body, mind you."

Dom looked up at the limb in question. It was clearly broken. For sure, Paul would fall to the floor leaving it behind if he swung on it for much longer.

"He can be your first notch, if you want?" The Major offered again. "Or I'll do it for you. No pressure either way."

Dom felt numb. A thousand memories flashed across his mind.

"No. I'll do it," he said, walking over to the grotesquely spinning body.

Without theatrics, he grasped the front of the man's shirt in a strong grip and stopped the rotation. Paul looked at him with fear in his eyes, obviously remembering all the past deeds he had done, and pain he had inflicted on the boy with a knife who stood before him.

The boy with the knife found that he liked the look on the man.

"Now come on, s..." Paul stopped himself before he uttered the word, buying himself a few more seconds. "I don't deserve this…"

"Yes you do," said the boy calmly, changing the grip on his knife.

"No. Don't do this…" Paul begged. "After everything I've done for you…"

"You haven't done _shit_ for me," Dom said with disgust. "But you've done a hell of a lot _to_ me."

"No," Paul said, panicking. His cause was a lost one. He couldn't erase the past and he had promised too often to change and not done for Dom to believe him now. "Think of your mother!"

 _Wrong. Words._

"I _am_ ," Dom said coldly, flashing the knife forward through the gloom and opening the man's neck across the windpipe. The sound of his abuser's attempts to breath was unpleasant to say the least, but it was almost _musical_ to his ears. The only pity the young Butler showed was the second slash of the blade, cutting clean through the jugular and the carotid artery nestled behind it. Blood cascaded over the man's face, splattering onto the floor noisily. Paul thrashed weakly for a few seconds, wheezing gargling screeches, before consciousness abandoned him for the final time. The crimson liquid sprayed over Dom in a spattering of warm droplets. He wiped his face with his sleeve and watched stoically until there was still and silence in the warehouse once more.

"Good job, Dom," The Major nodded approvingly. The whole time he had said nothing. Just let the boy do it his way. The only sound left in the room was the occasional soft _drip-drop_ as the carcass drained like a bull in a slaughterhouse. "A bit swift for the bastard for my taste, maybe. But not bad for your first time. And dead is dead, after all."

Dom nodded. Somewhere buried below the worry of he held for his mother's wellbeing, was a warm glow of satisfaction.

 _Threat neutralised._

"Where's my ma?" he asked quietly.

The Major's face changed and Dom's heart sunk.

"He didn't… She isn't…" he felt his heart-rate increase rapidly.

"No… She's OK, she's…"

But then his mother was there. Appearing a flurry of material – one of her long cardigans. A door clanged shut behind her somewhere, but that was the only herald of the source of her arrival.

She hadn't worn those in _years_ , Dom thought. Paul didn't like them…

"What have you done?!" she screamed at The Major, her voice frighteningly loud and frantic after his uncle's quiet approval. " _What have you done?!_ "

"Nothing that didn't need doing," The Major said, calmly.

Her eyes flashed around the room – to the body, to her son, to the knife in his hands.

"No… Domovoi, _no_!" she whirled on his uncle again. "What did you make him do?! _What have you turned him into?"_

"No – Ma, I wanted to do it! It needed to be me," Dom shouted at her, his throat suddenly clear to speak.

She looked at him, pain and regret engraved over her features. "No…"

"It's over," Dom said, quietly.

" _No_!" she repeated, leaping forward and slapping The Major across the cheek. He did nothing to stop her, turning his head slightly with the blow so that she wouldn't hurt her hand when it made contact with his strong jaw. "Look what you've done! _Look what you've turned my son into!_ You promised me! You _promised_ me you'd look after him! Raise him like your own! _You promised me you'd take care of him!_ "

"Come now, Theresa. I _am_ looking after him. What do you think this is?"

"This? _This_? Fuck you, Myles! Fuck _you_ and your entire Goddamn family!You are even more screwed up than I thought if you think _this_ is looking after him."

"Well, you can't say I don't treat him as my own. And I haven't _turned him into_ anything," The Major said in the same calm, reasoning tone he often used when justifying his actions. "This is who he is."

"And you're _pleased_ about it," she said venomously.

"Why shouldn't I be?" The Major asked, his voice becoming cooler, more matter-of-fact. "The man who abused you both - _raped_ you, tried to _murder_ your son - and would have succeeded too if I hadn't have turned up... He's dead because of that boy standing there. Why shouldn't I be proud of him? Why shouldn't we _both_ be?"

Dom looked at them both and found he didn't like the expressions on either of their faces as they both turned towards him and stared right back.

"Get out," Theresa spat, shoving The Major in the chest futilely. " _Get out_ of here and _never_ come near us again. I never want to see your face again!"

"Then you'd better not look too closely at your son," the Butler said - the first and only scathing retort he had given in return.

If he regretted saying it, the evidence wasn't there on his face and Theresa looked as though she would have happily thrown a cup of boiling acid into it if she'd had one to hand.

"You _bastard._ Don't you dare..." she began, visibly seething.

"Ma," Dom stepped in. "Ma, please..."

It was ironic, his mother calling his uncle a bastard. In the very definition of the word, that was him. The offspring of an unmarried couple. At The Academy some of the other students - usually older, those who knew about his lineage and more often than not, those he had embarrassed by soundly trouncing at some skill or other - would call him that. The Little Bastard. The Bastard Butler. The Butlers' Bastard. Whichever way they span it, he did well not to show how much it stung. He was strangely grateful his uncle didn't refer to it. He very easily could have implied the irony. _I'm the bastard? Oh really?_ Dom could almost hear it... but it never came.

"Don't. Just _don't_ , Domovoi," she said, with deadly quiet.

Dom felt like his world was being torn in two before him. His breathing dropped out of sync. He was on the verge of panicking.

"Leave, Myles," she said finally. "Before I call the police."

"As you wish," The Major said, dipping his head.

"I told you I knew this would happen," Theresa said bitterly to his receding back.

"Of course it would," The Major threw over his shoulder as he stepped into the impenetrable dark. "It's in his blood."

"Uncle?" Dom called after him, dropping the knife to the floor with a clatter and stepping towards the patch of darkness The Major had disappeared into. "Uncle, wait!"

"Oh that's right. You go running after _him_ ," his mother said in a voice he had never heard her use before. Scornful. Hateful, even. "You've chosen your side now, son."

"Ma?" he said softly. "Ma what is it? What's wrong?"

" _You. You're_ what's wrong," she said, eyes glinting eerily in the half-light. "In the _head_."

He leant away, frightened, as she tapped savagely at her temple with one forefinger.

"All of you. You _Butlers_."

"Mam?" he said shakily, taking a tentative step towards her, hand reaching out to touch her shoulder. To comfort her, as he often had. To be her protector. Just as he had always been.

But his fingers were stained bloody and she threw his arm down and away from her viciously.

"Look at what you've _become_ , Domovoi. You think this is what I wanted for you? You think I'm _proud_ of what you've become? What makes you think you're any better than _him_?" she asked, crossing to the body and reaching out as though to touch it.

"Ma… I did this for us," he said, unable to understand, trying to _reason_ with her... "To make us safe."

" _Us_? There is no _us_ ," she spat. "You may be your father's son - and hell, your uncle's nephew alright – but you're _no son of mine_."

And suddenly she had snatched the knife up from the floor and was flying towards him. The words had already cut him deeper than any blade, but Dom threw up his arms to defend himself anyway, stepping back...

"Murderer!" she screamed, plunging the knife into his chest. "Murderer! Murderer!"

He stumbled backwards, crashing into the body on the chain as it suddenly swung towards him, clawing at him with its stiffening fingers, laughing at him with Paul's laugh and glaring at him with its glazed eyes, hands clamping tightly down onto his arms, his throat, his face, holding him defenceless as his mother brought the knife down again and again, her face twisted with demented hatred...

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

He must have screamed out loud, for there was the sound of swift footsteps in the corridor outside and he'd barely had time to turn on the light and see that his hands were clean and his chest was whole and unmarked by the stabbing his mother had inflicted on him in the…

 _Nightmare._

It was only a nightmare.

He heaved a breath. And another, biting down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out again, this time in relief.

His uncle didn't knock as he swung open the door, gun drawn as a precaution.

Dom shook his head at him wordlessly, shaking as though he had genuinely been attacked by one of the few people he trusted in the world.

The Major cast his eyes around the room, glaring into the darkness as though daring the night itself to threaten those he held dear.

"It was nothing," Dom said as soon as he could breathe properly. "Just a nightmare. I'm sorry."

The Major visibly relaxed, flicking the safety on his gun and shoving it into his waistband.

"It's OK," he said, thinking briefly of the many night terrors he had suffered over the years. "You'll learn to control the yelling."

"I thought… I thought it was _real_ ," he said, hands still shaking. He was physically sweating. "Right up until the end. I didn't know... I thought..."

He reached up and touched his throat. It still felt tight, as though Paul's hands really _had_ been crushing his windpipe just moments before he woke. But they hadn't. And he was at the manor. Safe. _Home_.

His uncle paused in the doorway, his very silhouette; the shadow cast in the light spilling in from the hallway, calming the boy. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. Telling his uncle he'd had a dream about being happy about murdering Paul until his mother had stabbed him for it was not high on his list of things to do.

"OK. Well, you know where I am if you need me," he said slowly - understandingly. "Drink some water and try settle down again. You'll need your rest for tomorrow."

Dom nodded and his uncle left the room. He took his advice and gulped down some of the water by his bed, switching off the light and throwing the covers over himself again, trying not to analyse the dream too deeply. He already knew his mother worried about him and that The Academy – alongside his uncle and grandfather – would change him. But he was growing up. If that meant he became something she didn't like... They'd both have to live with that. She'd loved his father, after all. She loved his uncle, in a different way. Yet apparently, she also loved a man he hated. And he was _not_ planning to grow up to be an abusive, lowlife scumbag like Paul.

As for murdering the man… Well, it was no surprise he had dreamt about that.

* * *

 **OK. So that was basically me playing about and seeing if I can write this sort of stuff. I'd appreciate opinions on whether I can do it well or whether I should leave it to the experts.**

 **I hope that really I bigged it up and it wasn't so bad, but my beta-audience suggested a warning and I think they were right, really.**

 **Oh - and in case it isn't obvious, I made it back from my winter hiking alright. Great fun! Minus twenty degrees centigrade windchill factor, walking into 70mph gusts... practically a lazy day at The Academy haha**

 **Anyhoo, I shall get back to you all tomorrow replying to your reviews. I just thought you'd most likely prefer to have the chapter I needed to do a last minute once-over before it went up.**

 **Next chapter is an extended version of the snippet in Lil Rems.**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **01/02/2016**


	10. Chapter 9: Fighting Talk

**Thanks to: Shadow914, write that wrong, Laura-Wilkie, Steinbock, Readergirl99, Sana Lama Samaha, P.S. Sword, Guest and Alchemechanist** **for, as always, your brilliant reviews, and this time also for your whole-hearted acceptance of a different slant to my writing. I'm glad to hear it doesn't seem to have put _all_ of you off and hopefully this one will make up for those of you who weren't impressed with the last!**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS:** **Longer chapter, but as some of you have read most of it in the snippet in my one-shot collection, "Little Remedies " (*shamless-self-advertising-alert*) I thought you all deserved it :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER NINE - Fighting Talk**

 _ **Provocative words often of an insulting nature, indicating a willingness to challenge a person or belief**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve**

The next morning Domovoi awoke with a heavy lump of dread in his stomach that had nothing to do with bad dreams. He dressed quickly and went down to the gym for a quick session of training before breakfast, thinking that perhaps some exercise would help his stomach settle enough to eat. At least he may be able to work up an appetite.

By the time his uncle joined him, he had managed to work up a light sweat practicing moves he would plausibly get chance to use later that day.

"Morning, boy."

"Morning," he replied curtly, punishing the punchbag as though it had personally insulted Madam Ko.

"How are you feeling?" The Major asked, watching him with critical eyes and not once telling him to take it easy and not wear himself out.

Dom bounced out of the punchbag's 'range' and, after a moment, settled out of his defensive stance, turning to his uncle.

"I've felt worse," he said, noncommittally.

The man nodded. "Show me that last one again."

Dom obediently rose back onto the balls of his feet and repeated the series of moves: _Feign a left jab, duck, block, right blow to the mid-section…_

The Major nodded again, slowly this time. "You can improve that. You're leaving yourself too open on the feint. Try this…"

Soon, the light training had pushed all thoughts of Paul and the fight that coming evening to the back of his mind. Together, they went for breakfast and soon after that with a call of; "Ah, Major. There you are…" from Eugene Fowl, they were caught up with the last minute preparations for the _Oíche Chinn Bliana_ Ball _._

When all was finished but for laying out the buffet banquet, The Major looked at his watch.

"Go get your stuff," he said, as he unfurled the last table-cloth. "We'll leave in ten."

Dom nodded reluctantly, set down the stack of chairs he was carrying and headed for the stairs.

"Is he not staying for the ball?" asked Eugene, who had given himself the title of ' _Overseer'_ of the setting up process, although The Major thought ' _Hinderer'_ would suit the occupation's description better.

"No, sir. I've given The Major leave to take Junior to his mother's," his Butler informed him. "Although the former shall return before the bulk of the guest arrive, I'm sure."

"Ah that's a shame. Vivienne was rather hoping he'd be a bell-boy," Eugene said of his wife. "But I suppose it's nice of the lad to want to spend the turn of the year with his mother. I must say I was surprised he was here for Christmas once again…"

"As were we, but he's old enough to make his own choices these days," Alexandr said evenly.

Eugene knew better than to pry into the lives of his bodyguards, so he merely made some joke about Artemis rather spending Christmas away from his mother these recent years and strode off to loudly instruct some poor assistant on the floor above of the 'correct' way to suspend tinsel from a banister rail, leaving the Butlers alone.

The Major watched him go. "He can't hang that there. It's right over the sodding camera for the front entrance…"

"I know," Alexandr said in the tone of one long-suffering and used to correcting mistakes. "I'll move it later when he isn't looking."

"Along with that parasitic sprig Missus Fowl has had some fool hang above the main corridor, I hope."

"Whatever for? Concerned about getting trapped under it with Missus Farnley, are we, son?"

The Major grimaced. Mrs Farnley was the sixty-eight year old, widowed pastry chef who had been on the prowl for a second husband ever since her first had died of a heart-attack a few years back – probably caused by his tremendous weight, which was in itself a by-product of ingesting too much of her delicious food. However, not even the promise of an unlimited supply of baking could make the prospect of an encounter under the mistletoe with the rather _forward_ grandmother-of-seven any more appealing. His father still loved to bring up the time she had been leaving late one hot summer evening when they'd been training on the West-side lawn and she'd casually remarked that she was quite the Goldilocks when it came to choosing her men. Domovoi had looked confused, wondering what exactly porridge and bears had to do with him, his uncle and his grandfather, but The Major had almost choked on the water he'd been drinking and his father, the epitome of the decorous gentleman, had barely refrained from uttering a veritable snort of amusement as he bid the woman a good evening.

"What time do you need me back for?" Myles asked, before that particular story could be given yet another rendition.

"Preferably before Lord Westlund arrives."

"You mean so you can fob old Henderson off on me for a while," The Major said with a smirk.

"Can you blame me? I can't stand the insufferable oaf and his goddamn stories about ' _the good old days'_ ," Alexandr grouched.

"He's only _slightly_ older than you, Pa," The Major pointed out.

"Nonsense. The man has at least half a decade on me. And I'll remind you of that comment next time we spar, shall I?" his father growled. "Besides. The most excitement he's ever experienced was a bomb scare in a restaurant. And even that turned out to be a faulty pressure cooker. I have nothing to say to the man. Even the most mundane of our escapades over the years sends him positively _reeling_ in awe…"

"I'll be back as soon as I can," The Major promised.

For once his father – a stickler for timekeeping and planning – did not object.

"I can hold the fort here for as long as you need," he said, eyes still on his charge who was about to climb a stepladder _– for fuck's sake Eugene, leave it to the staff. That_ _ **is**_ _what you hire them for, is it not?_ "Do what you have to. I'll make your excuses if you're not back by midnight. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself."

The Major nodded, although with what his father knew he had in mind, it was unreasonable to believe it was achievable. "Understood."

His father set off to rescue his charge from the lofty heights of the second rung.

"Oh and son?" Alexandr said over his shoulder, dropping a rare wink at his younger counterpart. "Give him my regards."

"Of course, sir," The Major said, his steely gaze hardening. "I'll be sure to send him your best."

* * *

Dom slung the small bag over his shoulder. He had come with nothing to the manor, of course, so he would have to hope Paul had the brains to remember to bring his wraps, shirt and gumshield for him.

The door to Artemis's study opened as he passed and he stepped back so the boy wouldn't startle when he left the room, although it was no wonder people could sneak up on him with his hair over his eyes like that.

"Oh. Hello, Junior. Going somewhere?" he asked, flicking his dark fringe from his face.

"Yeah. Back to my mam's," he said – which was not entirely a lie.

"Ah, I see," Artemis said with a sigh. "I rather wish I was going with you. These gatherings are nigh on unbearable, don't you think?"

The young Butler didn't think so. As introverted as he was in comparison to most his age, he thought it would be pretty cool to have friends and relatives over to spend New Year together. Then again, _his_ friends and relatives did not include boring old business associates of his fathers and their privileged offspring, all desperate to get pally with the heir to an empire. Besides, 'agree with your charge' was way up there with 'your charge cannot be shot if you are standing in front of him', protocol-wise. Or in this case, agree with one's _uncle's_ charge.

"Well, good luck," he said, with a sympathising cringe. "Could always lock yourself up here if it gets really bad."

"I would," Artemis confessed. "But Mother would notice."

"Wait until after the eggnog waiters have done a few rounds," Dom advised with a smirk.

"Good plan, Junior. See – this is why I like having you around. Your uncle and grandfather, they're good men. But they're obsessed with me being _proper_. Well, if one disregards that snowball fight on Christmas Day," the young Fowl said with a short laugh. "I mean, I can see the benefits of acting like a gentleman on occasion, of course. But to maintain it for hours on end… it's tedious at best."

"Being _proper_ doesn't mean you can't enjoy yourself," Dom shrugged. "At least you don't have to greet everyone and offer to take their coats and stuff. All you have to do is pretend you give a shit about their latest business ventures."

"True, true," the heir to Fowl Industries admitted. He had forgotten, once again, what luxuries his status afforded him. "Well – have a good New Year, Junior. Party, is it?"

"Something like that," Dom answered vaguely. "Have a good New Year and all that."

Something about the abrupt farewell grated with the Fowl boy, but he knew better than to press. Junior was probably just eager to be off and not suffer his uncle's wrath for tardiness. His bodyguard had always been a stickler for time-keeping and planning, after all.

"Yes. Quite. I'm sure I will. Well… enjoy yourself, old chap," Artemis said, heading to his room, presumably to shower and comb his hair into something his mother would consider more presentable.

 _And good luck to him with that._

Dom rang his hand over his bristly scalp. His mother had always preferred the mop of hair he had had before joining The Academy, but this was far more practical. Nobody could grab hold of a handful and drive his face into their knee, for one. He trotted down the stairs, trying to ease some of the lingering stiffness out of his thighs - a physical memory of his escapades barely more than week before. He had brought himself slowly back to fitness, heeding his grandfather's warning to take it easy and following his uncle's advice to keep tabs on the clarity of his breathing to watch for a chest cold. All in all, he had had a lucky escape. If running across country in a blizzard and winding up only with hypothermia could be referred to as 'lucky'.

He met The Major in the hallway.

"Ready?" his uncle asked.

And though he felt as far from it as he could ever remember, Dom nodded.

The car journey was considerably more pleasant than the hike he had undertaken to get to the manor, but it was by no means enjoyable. Not even the plush interior of his uncle's latest pride and joy of the vehicle variety could make Dom feel comfortable.

Eventually the countryside became more and more cluttered, until eventually they reached the motorway, the Bentley's engine purring as The Major accelerated onto the smooth tarmac. Dom caught him smiling - or at least what passed for a smile on a Butler's face - and felt his features mirroring the expression.

"What are you laughing at?" his uncle growled, his visage returning to its usual taciturn countenance.

Dom shrugged innocently, returning to staring out of the window. The pristine white snow that had coated the rural landscape was rapidly giving way to the grey slush of urban surroundings. By the time they slowed down and entered the busy road system, the only version of snow that remained was the dirty icebergs that littered the gutters, blocking the drains and leaving puddles of grimy meltwater to build up, creating obstacles for those scurrying through the bleak streets of the city.

"Do you want to visit the flat first?" The Major asked.

Dom looked at his watch and shook his head. "No. Best get there early. Traffic will be shit."

It was only five o'clock, but The Major respected the boy's wishes. He was right about the traffic, after all. And by the time he had directed him to the gym, it was almost half-past the hour.

"You want me to come in with you? I can park up if you want."

"No," Dom said, unbuckling his belt and adding; "Thanks. Some scumbag will scratch their name into the car if you leave it here anyway. And they'll spell it wrong to boot."

"They'll have a job," The Major scoffed. "You could go at this paint with a 9mm and it wouldn't leave a mark."

"Huh, don't tell them that," Dom advised, reaching into the back for his bag.

"Knock 'em dead, boy," said his uncle, elbowing him gently.

Dom opened the door of the car. "Don't tempt me."

He didn't look back as he got reached the entrance marked "FIGHTERS ONLY", banging on it with his forearm and stepping back for it opened outward, The Major noted. He watched as his nephew drew himself up and stepped lithely into the gym. The wooden door closed behind him with an audible thud, despite the layer of bullet-proof glass between it and him.

Time to set his plan into motion.

* * *

 **Eddie O'Connell's 'Fighting Talk' Gym, Dublin, Ireland**

Dom walked through the winding corridors of the dressing rooms to the main hall. That's where Paul would be waiting for him, making last minute preparations with the gym's owner, Edmond 'Eddie' Johnson. Sure enough, as he slipped silently into the open room, Paul was there with his back to him.

"Ey up, Paul. Wee bast'ud's got 'ere," Eddie said with a jerk of his head. "No need t' send out t'search party aft'all."

Eddie O'Connell had a strange habit of missing out words from sentences that they were required in and slotting others into ones which they weren't. It had always unreasonably annoyed Dom, although he couldn't put a finger on why.

His mother's boyfriend turned lazily to face him. "You're late."

Dom didn't bother looking at his watch. It was five thirty and not a minute later. It wasn't any _earlier_ either, but he had arrived exactly when Paul had told him to. Regardless, it was not the time Paul was bothered about, but the impression of the power he had over Dom.

"Sorry, sir," Dom said through gritted teeth. "Traffic."

"Traffic my arse. And look at me when you speak to me – _how many feckin' times have I told you?"_ Paul ordered, raising his hand threateningly as though to give a rebuking cuff.

Dom's shoulder twitched involuntarily and Paul saw, laughing to himself.

"Eyes on me, you little turd or I'll give you something to flinch at."

Dom forced himself to look up at the hated face and borderline-overweight features of the man. Paul was well-built, muscled – although this was somewhat hidden these days by a layer of what he liked to call _insulation_. He was, thus far, taller than Dom; although given the Butler family's habit of having a growth spurt at the age of sixteen, that wouldn't be the case for too many more years. He would perhaps be more intimidating if Domovoi did not spend so much time in the company of giants, but he was still imposing enough to get exactly what he wanted from the vast majority of people.

"Th'fuck happened cha'face, kid?" Eddie said with a snorted laugh.

Paul glared at him. Dom blinked freely and lied through his teeth, jutting his chin defiantly.

"Training," he explained the marks away. "Practicing headbutts and shit."

"Oh yeah? Those aren't legal you know. And you're gonna have job to use 'em today, anyway," Eddie told him, fluttering the piece of paper with the running order on it. "You're fighting a kid even lankier than you. His sixteen, mind, but they call him 'Redwood' on't account of 'im being like a feckin' beanpole. Got arms long than't your legs. Wanna see his record too."

Eddie gave a low whistle as he slid a finger down the paper, but Dom just shrugged. The statistics of his opponent rarely interested him. That was Paul's domain. The harder the fight, the more money he'd get when Dom won. Presuming he did. Although he had not let him down on that front yet.

"You listening, Dummy?" Paul asked. "No pissing about. You let this leggy bastard get a few shots in and you're going to be on the canvas. And if you don't take it there, he's gonna pound you into it. You got it?"

"I _got_ it," he said, just shy of mockingly.

"You better had got it," Eddie continued, missing the derision in the boy's voice. "Because then you've got t'regional champ to bring down a peg."

"What?" Dom said before he could stop himself. "Paul – you said _one_ fight."

Paul shrugged. "Is it a problem? I told you to keep up your training, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but come on – "

"You fucking _scared_ , Dommy-boy?" Paul sneered at him. "'Cause you better fucking-well suck it up, buttercup. You're going in that ring whether you like it or not. If you beat this Redwood guy, you fight some uppity shite called Vinco. If you _lose_ … "

He left the sentence hanging and Eddie suddenly looked very busy with paperwork. It was not that he wasn't aware of his friend's dubious ' _encouragement_ ' techniques, but he chose to turn a blind eye.

"I'll do it," Dom said, adding under his breath bitterly. "Though it's a fucking piss-take."

Paul leered at him.

"What was that?"

"Nothing… _sir_. Where's my stuff? I need to warm up."

"Room six. Get your kit on, get weighed, checked… Doors open in an hour and twenty and I want you looking good and pumped when the betting starts."

"Yessir," he said, turning smartly away.

He crossed the hall which would soon be packed with people. For now it was cold and empty but for the various staff checking lights and sound, giving the cage a final clean before the big event, writing up starting odds on the huge blackboard behind the stage.

"Hey Paul?" he heard Eddie ask as he left. "This boarding school t'kid goes to - it military?"

"Some bullshit like that, yeah."

"Aye ah thoug'so. Y'an tell. Look at'm all snap toowit an' shi'..."

Dom trudged to the changing rooms. _Military boarding school?_ They had no idea.

Shouldering open the door which was crudely painted with a number six and throwing his bag onto the bench along one wall, he sighed. _Here we go again_. His things were in a plastic bag. Shorts, a sleeveless shirt he'd have to take off before the fight started and a hoodie to shove on after it – or rather, before the next one. The most important things in the bag were rolled neatly into cylinders and he placed them on the bench whilst he got changed. It was easier to strap up after he'd done everything else. Once dressed, he sat down and began slowly winding the strappings around his hands, taking care not to restrict his ability to make a fist and wrapping the material around his wrist for extra support. At The Academy, Ko didn't like them using strapping. In what real-life situation would they have time to tape up their hands? Then again, she also didn't condone going out spoiling for a fight. He finished both his hands, flexing his fingers and doing a few seconds of shadow boxing to combat the chill of the bare, concrete-lined room. He took off his watch, checking it. He had at least another hour until the audience began filing in. Plenty of time to get himself looking as 'pumped' as Paul wanted. The better he looked, the more people would place bets on him. Only Paul would get in there before the odds dropped.

He put his things in a locker – thieves were definitely not unheard of around here – and headed for the weighing scales.

"Evening, kid," the man charged with measuring up and health checking the fighters greeted him. His name was Billy Evans and he was not unfriendly, but had been weighing fighters for so long that the process was almost mechanical and Dom often felt like an animal being evaluated at market for sale.

"Hey, Billy."

"Step up," he gestured. "Let's have a look at ya."

Dom shrugged off the hoodie, kicked off his shoes and stepped onto the scales. The needle wavered somewhere around the 65kg mark. The man scratched it down with a slight frown.

"According to this here sheet, you've lost a couple of kilos since your last fight. You been ill or something?"

"Just training harder," Dom shrugged. "Fast metabolism and all that."

One of those was true.

The man eyed him critically. "And you look like you've shot up another inch. Damn it, kid. You're booked at 5'8"… Get on with ya - under the stick."

Dom moved over to the height measurer and the man slid the block down to the top of his head.

"Yup. Five nine," he said through the pencil clamped between his teeth. "That might explain the weight dropping off you. You gotta eat right if you're gonna keep this sort of growth up, you know?"

"I know," Dom said. Of course he was well aware. Nutrition was an important part of fitness and even if it wasn't for his uncle and grandfather drilling it into him, they had lessons at The Academy on it.

"Tell Paul I told you you need to bulk up. You've got definition on those muscles of yours, I'll give you that. But some of that's because you're literally just skin stretched over them. Get some carbs in you."

"I will," he said, simultaneously thinking; _I won't_.

"Good. At this rate you'll be six foot before you're si…" Billy caught himself. The thirteen-year-old before him was supposed to be _nearly_ sixteen already. "You'll be six foot before long, anyway."

"I know. Looking forward to it," Dom nodded. "Though it'll be shame to miss out on a career as a fighter jet pilot. I'm getting pretty good with the controls."

It was not a joke, but the medic was not to know that. Billy shook his head with a snort, scratching down the alterations to Dom's spec.

"Sit – you know the drill."

Dom sat on the chair, obediently opening his mouth – although what exactly Billy was looking for, he never knew. Billy shined the light into each of his eyes next.

"All clear. Nice shiner you've got there. Bit of out-of-hours going on?"

He was referring to out-of-the-ring fights, of course.

Dom nodded simply.

"Keep it to the cage, boy. You'll get yourself in trouble."

"I _am_ the trouble," he said, with a brashness Ko would not approve of.

"You're telling me," Billy said with a _hmmph_ of agreement.

He slipped a blood-pressure collar onto his arm, noting down the reading and pulling a stethoscope out of the front of his jumper.

"102/83. Your BP's low as well. Any dizziness when you stand up quickly?"

Dom shrugged. "Nope."

"Blackouts? Blurry vision?"

"Nope," he said again.

The medic looked disbelieving, but continued. "Shirt."

Dom lifted his shirt up and Billy pressed the cold disk at the end of the stethoscope against his skin, closing his eyes to listen.

"Your heart's good at least. Lungs sound a bit rattily. You seen a doc recently?"

Dom snorted. "Are you counting yourself?"

The man gave a tut and took the stethoscope away. Although Eddie has his name down as the 'fight doctor', Billy in no way claimed to be a _qualified_ doctor. Still, if you got your head bust open in a fight – Billy Evans was your man. He had once been a nurse in A &E and if Dom was honest, the man's stitching was on a par with The Academy's chief medic. Not that he would be telling his friend Wilhelm that – or his father, Dr Chigrakov.

"Alright, you're done. Go warm up."

"Cheers, Billy."

"Yeah whatever, kid. See you after the fight – don't give me too much work to do, eh?"

"On me? That's the plan."

"On _anyone_ , actually."

"Where would be the fun in that?" the young Butler scoffed.

The medic laughed and kicked the door closed after him.

* * *

Dom spent the next twenty minutes warming up slowly, followed by standing on stage feeling like an idiot alongside the other competitors, followed by another ten minutes warming up. He was to be the first fight. The only age brackets fighting tonight were under sixteens to open age.

He didn't need the runner to tell him to be ready. He was already stood at the bottom of the stairs ready to walk into the cage. His opponent, dressed all in red, looked him up and down and made no effort to hide his sneer. Dom gave him a nod of acknowledgement, but it wasn't returned. He knew what the other boy was seeing. He was nowhere near at his best. It would be easy for Redwood to underestimate the battered and bruised youngster that was billed as his opponent. He may look old for his age, but stood next to a genuine semi-professional under sixteen age-bracket – and one that was well-fed, well-trained and well-rested at that – the difference was stark.

"OK boys," the runner said, as Eddie introduced the referee for the evening over the tannoy. "You're good to go. Red then blue."

Dom stepped back courteously to allow the other boy to pass, which he did with a not so unintentional shoulder-barge.

"Save it for the cage!" the runner warned, placing a firm hand on Dom's shoulder. He needn't have bothered. The young Butler wasn't about to start a fight in the narrow stairwell. Not that he couldn't _win_ in a narrow stairwell, but…

The older boy pushed open the slim double-doors that opened onto a shoulder-width narrow corridor and up into the cage. Light and noise flooded the concrete corridor. Dom trotted quickly up the stairs and followed him into the glare of the cage lights before they could close.

He scanned his corner for Paul, spotting him easily amongst the cheering audience, sat in the small area reserved for trainers and medics. He unzipped his hoodie and passed it through the hatch cut into the cage wall.

"Alright – you've seen the guy. You know what you're doing? Canvas him. You throw punches at that upright and he's just going to lamp you from a distance."

Dom nodded as though he was taking Paul's advice on-board and slotted his gumshield into his mouth.

"Give us a show, then," Paul said, shutting the hatch sharply.

Dom turned round and breathed deeply, rotating his shoulders and twisted his neck to either side until the ligaments popped.

"In the red corner…" Eddie began blaring over the tannoy in an excited rumble. "With a winning streak as long as his arms… I give you… _Redwood_!"

The taller boy raised his lengthy limbs to the ceiling, parading around the ring and whipping up the crowd with some jabs and a fancy on-the-spot spinning kick. He took off his warm-up vest and threw it over the top of the cage fencing. The shirt was snatched up and waved around like a flag. The audience were going wild. Clearly he had brought along a home crowd with him. Dom hoped things wouldn't turn ugly when the fight was over. Whatever the outcome, there was likely to be friction.

"And in the blue corner… it's our very own home-grown, un-da-feated, un-da-dog… _Flex_!"

Dom gave a nod of his head. Theatrics were not his style.

"Give it to them," Paul hissed at him under the cheers.

Dom rolled his eyes and ripped his shirt over his head, throwing it into his corner. He couldn't afford to have it taken as a souvenir by some overenthusiastic fan. He brought his arms up like one of those orange-painted imbeciles with the blow-up biceps, pulling his shoulder-blades together behind him and – which had been what had given him his fight name in the first place – flexing his muscles.

"Have ya'ver seen muscles like that on a kid o'his age before?" Eddie crowed. "Nah? Let me hear ya give it up for the Dublin pup!"

A roar so loud it seemed to rattle the cage emanated from the throng of people. The crowd seemed almost evenly split in terms of support, cheering just as much at that as they had done for Redwood. The referee brought them together and made them shake hands. Dom looked up at the other fighter who glared at him. Obviously he had been told not to underestimate his opponent, despite the three year and 13 centimetre gap between them, but it was hard not to. The kid in the blue shorts was just that. A kid. _Right?_ Freakishly developed muscularly, but he was probably on some illegal supplement for that, for sure.

"Are you ready, boys?" the man asked, checking his stopwatch.

"Bring it, shrimpy," Redwood said with a gumguard grin.

 _Shrimpy?_ Even at this age, it was highly unusual for a Butler to be called such a thing. At the Academy, in his age group there was perhaps only two people taller than him. And one of those was built like a garden rake. But then again, he was supposed to be another few years older than he was. Compared to the naturally matured sixteen-year-old, Dom did indeed look quite considerably younger.

He didn't reply. Or at least not verbally. The second the referee blew his whistle, he dived in with a jab to the stomach, lightning fast, bringing the other boy's head down as he blocked. He went for a knee to the face but the older boy countered swiftly.

 _OK,_ Dom thought now that he'd tested the waters. _He's pretty good_.

He didn't have time to think anything else other than what his next moves was going to be and how to block his opponent's for the next five minutes. He was _quick_. He parried and blocked, parried and blocked, feeling his energy drain as his muscles began working anaerobically. He tried to remember to _breathe_ , but when the whistle went for the end of the round, he still found himself actually _panting_. He gestured for water through the fence. Paul shook his head at him, sneering.

"'The fuck are you doing?" he demanded angrily. "You should've had him on the canvas at least twice by now."

Dom peeled the mouthguard from his teeth. His gums were tacky. He ran his tongue over them.

"I need some water."

"You want water, you work hard," Paul snapped. "That was _pathetic_. You're parrying with him. These people paid good money to see a fight, not a fucking dance-off. Now get out there and knock him on the floor."

Dom would have spat on the floor if his mouth hadn't have been so dry. Paul wanted to see a wrestling match? _Fine_.

This time Redwood was ready from the off. He came in with the first attack. Which, luckily for Domovoi, was exactly what he was trained to respond to. He side-stepped the jab, using the other boy's momentum to help bring him down as he lunged. On the way down, he threw himself onto his opponent to ensure maximum delivery to the canvas. An echoing thud boomed through the hall, Eddie commentating excitedly.

"And there we see Flex's experience at taking people down showing through. This kid knows what he's doing. But just look at that leg-lock from Redwood!"

The leg-lock Eddie was referring too had been almost unexpected. Dom had been relying on the take-down to knock the wind out of the taller boy. If it had, it wasn't having any effect and now the older boy had his neck in the crook of one of his knees. Dom reared, dragging him with him. The only way out of this was to flip the boy towards his own head. He wasn't panicked exactly, but it was highly uncomfortable. He threw himself forward in what was almost a suicide move, pulling his head out of the hold a millisecond before he would have driven his own face into the floor. Redwood had clearly not been expecting this and as he leapt to his feet, disorientated, Dom took the opportunity to deliver two kicks that sent him sprawling again – one to the back of the knee and the other to the back of the thigh.

"Ha ha!" Eddie boomed. "Did you see that? Flex is kickass – literally!"

Redwood was furious. His face matched his name and he whirled at Dom with a series of punches. The shorter boy parried them easily, but was caught out slightly when one long arm shot past his ear and caught him on the pull-back. The next punch came from the opposite side, but he was ready. He threw one hand up to knock the retreating arm clear of his head… and his opponent took advantage, bringing his foot up and delivering a hefty kick to his chest. Distraction and pounce. The older boy had played him at his own game. Dom was knocked back a step, air caught in his chest painfully, locking in his throat. Redwood came in again and he was barely quick enough to avoid a punch to the stomach.

The whistle went again and he backed off slowly, gasping for air and massaging the centre of his chest.

 ** _Fuck_** _that hurt_ , he thought, gritting his teeth.

 _No_ , said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Madam Ko. _Pain is just the early warning system so that you_ _ **do not**_ _let that happen again._

Paul was screaming something at him, but he could barely hear him over the roar of the crowd. Now he really did need a drink. He searched the mesh for someone with a water-bottle. As if answering his prayers, one sailed over the fence surrounding the ring and, by some fluke, he caught it one-handed, earning another cheer from the crowd.

"You've got _one_ round," Paul was shouting at him. "You better pull something out of the bag. He's winning on points after that last one. It's tap outs or something fucking spectacular, you hear me?"

Dom nodded, not really listening to the information he had already heard Eddie booming over the tannoy. The whistle went again, Redwood bouncing forwards confidently, eager to carry on where he'd left off. Dom was more cautious, by nature as it was, but also because the swift foot to the chest had actually knocked some of the self-assurance out of him. This was not an easy match and despite fighting to win, he could not even afford to throw his all at it, given that it would mean he would be fighting again in an hour. He blocked and returned blows automatically, thinking whilst Redwood tired himself out with complicated series of jabs. Then came a blow that he leant too far into, Dom switched feet and swung his right foot into the boy's ribs in mid-air, spinning away. Redwood made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a yelp. But when Dom dropped his hands, seemingly to rebalance from the manoeuver, Redwood's face twisted into a snarl of a smile and he lunged in for a repeat of that successful chest kick. No way the kid could stand another one of them without ending up on the canvas… and that was when he realised he'd been tricked. The dropped defence of the shorter boy's hands suddenly flew up, trapping his foot between two flat palms and drawing it down and out across the hip without letting go, then back upwards, bending the extended leg suddenly. The insult added to the injury was that it was his own knee that connected with his face with a slapping crack. His hands automatically covered his nose, but Dom wasn't about to show any mercy and in an instant Redwood was back on the floor again. Dom leapt onto him, pinning him across the chest with his own leg. He had thirty seconds to make Redwood tap out. The other boy tried to throw his leg, tried to counterweight Dom from the pivot point of his chest. The younger boy spun, keeping hold of the leg and twisting against the knee, folding it across his torso whilst standing on the loose leg firmly. Redwood screamed out.

"Tap if it's too much, red. Hold it, blue," the ref shouted rapidly. Dom put his weight on the leg, blow after blow raining on his back as Redwood punched him in the ribs, trying to dislodge him. Redwood tried to roll onto his stomach to relieve the pain, but the angle was all wrong to do so. Screaming in a mixture of agony and frustration, he refused to tap out. But it was over anyway. The whistle went and Dom let go with disciplined speed, standing and offering a hand to his downed opponent. But Redwood scrambled to his feet furious, swinging a roundhouse punch at Dom, who grabbed his arm calmly and twisted it until Redwood was forced to turn round with his arm pinned up his own back, kicking him in the calf and slamming him against the cage mesh. The ref grabbed hold of the pair of them, separating them forcefully and shouting at both of them for continuing after the whistle.

"Oh-ho, chill it boys – chill _it_ ," Eddie laughed over the speakers. "Game over."

Redwood called foul play. Flex said nothing.

"And we have our winning ladies and gentlemen," Eddie continued. "Sorry but today, you won't be adding another branch to the tree of yours Redwood, the winner by 126 points to 98 is _F-f-flex_!"

Dom gave a small smile of triumph, but the score didn't reflect the match. It had felt much closer than that.

 _And you have another to come now…_ he thought to himself. _Good work, idiot._

"Had to leave it 'til the last second, didn't you?" Paul said, seeming grudgingly impressed with his fighting skills.

Redwood stormed out of the cage, shouting back at his trainer who was trying to talk to him as he made for the dressing rooms.

"Get back to your dressing room and scrub up," Paul told him, throwing his shirt and hoodie through the hatch – along with a water bottle which would have been much appreciated earlier. "You've got an hour."

Dom nodded, pulling on his post-fight hoodie and allowing the fuming Redwood to clear the 'chute' to the changing room. The crowd pushed against the mesh, trying to get him to high-five them. But he kept his head down. If he high-fived one, he'd have to do them all and he didn't have time for that.

Eddie was speaking again, running the line-up over the tannoy. One fight of under eighteens next. Then two open age group matches. Then the 'Highlight of the Night' – himself verses the regional champion of under sixteens. After that there was just one more fight. A novelty New Year fight. People put their names into a box and a draw was made. The first two picked would fight, unless one forfeited. Then another would be chosen. It was seen as cowardly not to at least put your name in, but many of the fights just ended in a short scuffle of untrained cage-fighting fans. _Occasionally_ , just occasionally, mind you, there would be a fight worth watching. Dom fervently hoped Paul would get picked. The man had, admittedly, been a very good cage-fighter a few years back, but a knee injury had forced him to retire early. According to him, Dom still wasn't as good as he'd been in his prime. Dom wasn't so sure. Paul had retired before he'd ever seen him fight in real life. He'd seen the videos, but videos only tended to show the best bits. Despite officially being retired, he still theatrically put his name in every year. He had not been picked yet.

Dom entered the small room he'd been assigned and towelled the sweat off his neck and back. Stretching all of his muscles out slowly before he did so, he sat cross-legged and straight-backed on the floor, resting his hands upturned on his knees. Meditation was a good way to pass the time, even if he was not so willing for it to pass swiftly. The next fight would be harder than the first and yet he was in no shape to give it his all. Or, more truthfully, it was possible that what was left of his 'all' was, for once, not going to be enough.

As soon as the thought arrived he banished it. That was no way to think. If you believed you may lose, you may as well have already lost.

And Domovoi Butler was not in the business of losing.

* * *

 **There we are. Finally reached the first bit you read of this fic. I know I'm a bit odd chucking snippets in Lil Rems to gauge whether people want to read the rest of a fic or not, but it seems to work for me. I understand if you don't leave a review for this one though, totally fair enough considering the majority of it garnered a good few elsewhere. The next chapter will once again be something brand new.**

 **I hope you're looking forward to the rest of this fic, because I certainly am :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	11. Chapter 10: Luck of the Draw

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, Readergirl99, Sana Lama Samaha, P.S. Sword, Jolinnn, Steinbock, Kath and write that wrong for the reviews, even though you'd read most of it before, it was great to hear you still enjoyed it.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: More fight-scene binging. Sorry if you're bored of it... 'cause I'm not haha :)**

 **Without further ado - here we go. We took the long way around, but here is the immediately subsequent chapter to the first snippet you saw, way back almost a month ago now.**

 **Thank-you for being patient.** **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TEN - Luck of the Draw**

 _ **The result of chance on a situation where the individual has no control over the outcome**_

 **Eddie O'Connell's "Fighting Talk" Gym, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve**

The man with the baseball cap pulled down low and shadowing his face, watched the winner of the fight disappear through the double-doors. The idiot on the tannoy was rallying more people up to put their names into the draw for the final fight. He smiled to himself.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Or, more accurately, they tapped him on the bottom of his shoulder blade, after perhaps _trying_ to reach his shoulder.

"Hey you – you owe me a drink!"

"Do I now?" he asked straightening out of the stoop he'd been putting on to avoid being noticed.

The other man quailed slightly. "Well – n-normally I'd say so, yeah. But since you were just throwing it to Flex, I guess I can let you off."

"You can _let me off?_ " the tall man repeated, somewhat disbelievingly.

"Yeah. I mean… Grant is a great trainer – you can see that in how Flex fights. But I think he's a bit harsh withholding water and all… So yeah. Just… throw your own next time, you got that?"

With that, the man turned around and pushed his way through the crowd, throwing one last, somewhat- _nervous_ , glance over his shoulder to check he wasn't being followed by the giant – who shook his head.

 _Gobshites, the lot of them_.

All mouth and no trousers. Not like the boys in the ring. No, he'd happily give each and every one of the jeering audience a proper fight of their own.

But just _one_ would do for now. He glared at his target – who was chugging down yet another a can of beer and laughing with his friend – the aforementioned idiot on the tannoy.

Now, to make sure that happened…

* * *

"You're up, Flex," one of the runners called, banging on his door.

Dom opened his eyes slowly.

"Hey Flex – I said you're _up_. You coming? Or do I have to get your dad to come down here and get you?"

"He's _not_ my _dad_ ," Dom growled, ripping open the door.

"Dad, step-dad, guy who's screwing your ma… Kid, I could give a shit," the runner - Paddy Vickers - drawled. "Now get out there and give them a show."

"You're not gonna tell me to go win?" Dom asked. That was this particular runner's usual advice, after all.

Paddy laughed, clapping him on the back. "You'll be lucky if you manage that tonight.

Which of course immediately had Dom about as riled as the _'your ma'_ comment.

"We'll see," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Just try come back in one piece - no-one can be arsed to take you to St Jimmy's tonight of all nights."

Dom ignored the fact the runner seemed convinced he would be in need of a hospital after his encounter with the next fighter and stepped through the door, jogging quickly up the steps. His latest rival was already there. Being a minor celebrity on the junior cage-fighting scene, he'd had a photo-shoot before the match. Again, this boy was bigger. More muscled than Redwood too, if a little shorter. He was lean, athletic and serious, giving off an air of nonchalant confidence. Domovoi has seen the likes amongst the older students at The Academy he aspired to be like. His opponent looked… _trained_.

Eddie welcomed them both to the cage in his usual manner, booming over the mood-setting music.

"In the red, he's a regular Superman of the scene – certainly our star of the evening – it's the regional champion of under sixteens and, ladies and gents, _he's only gone and qualified_ for Irish Junior Champs next spring… Let's hear a big welcome for… _Vinco!"_

'Vinco' raised his arms, acknowledging the crowd's praise.

"And in the blue corner, looking ready to repeat that victory we saw from him earlier, facing the Superman – let's call him _Flex_ Luthor!"

The crowd applauded the joke Eddie had clearly been working on all night and Dom went through his ridiculous flexing routine again. The other lad – Vinco – grinned at him.

"Something funny?" Dom growled over his gumshield.

"Nothing. Just I can tell you don't want to do that."

Dom scowled. The older boy was being almost… _friendly_.

The referee positioned them. "Alright boys, you know the rules. Good, clean fighting only."

They both nodded curtly, settling into stances. Dom noticed Vinco held his hands a little high. _Probably a kicker, then._

"Ready…" said the ref, holding up his arms. "Set… _Fight!"_

He dropped them swiftly and stood back. For the second time that night, the fight was on.

Despite his friendly exterior, Dom found out Vinco meant business very early on. Before the round was up, the older boy had racked up high double-figure points easily and Dom had spent most of the time blocking and avoiding. He returned to his corner almost gratefully at the whistle, stumbling slightly.

"You're letting him walk all over you! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Paul roared at him through the mesh.

"I'm _trying_ ," Dom growled.

" _Trying?_ Trying my bloody patience you mean!" Paul snapped. "Don't be so pathetic!"

It was times like this Dom was tempted to turn up at a police station with the dates for the next less-than-legal cage fight to be held at Eddie O'Connell's gym. It wouldn't have worked for this one. The vast majority of tonight was legal. The betting was a grey area, but it could be covered up with a bit of hush-money.

"Clearly you need more training," Paul said in disgust. "I knew you'd slack off, you little shite!"

"I already won you a fight tonight," Dom countered.

"And you'll win me _another one_ ," Paul snarled. "If you lose, that won't be the only beating you get tonight – am I clear?"

"Crystal," Dom spat bitterly, spinning back to the ring.

"Is that all you got? People told me you were good," Vinco said, grinning at him infuriatingly.

Dom didn't answer the taunt, instead settling into his fighting position and taking a deep breath. _Calm. Passion is the enemy of efficiency._

"Round two… _fight!"_ the ref ordered.

Dom threw a feigned punch with his favoured right hand. Vinco was smart enough to have noticed his opponent was right-handed. He was also smart enough to predict a feint. So Dom threw a double-bluffed, fake left jab and then almost immediately caught his opponent full on the side of the head with his right fist.

Vinco swore. "You sneaky little shit. That Grant guy teach you that?"

"Did he hell," Dom replied, leaping forward for a second shot. Vinco parried, wasting no more time on talking. He was considerably bigger than Dom – two rarities in one day – and was using his longer reach to his advantage, backing out of range and putting in hits from afar. He also had a good kick on him, which Dom found to his own discomfort when Vinco caught him solidly in the thigh, deadening his leg.

He staggered, which turned out to be a nigh-on terminal mistake for his chances of winning this fight, for it coincided with the exact moment Vinco landed, as light a dancer, onto his kicking foot and pirouetted, bringing his non-dominant foot up unreasonably high... It connected heel-first with Domovoi's temple without a resounding _thwack_.

Domovoi was grateful for his gumshield as his jaws clashed together in response to the impact. _Ouch_. His whole skull reverberated and his body went limp automatically as he crashed to the floor, every last ounce of his will in screaming, _burning_ focus on staying concious.

The crowd gasped and cheered as Dom decked, but to some of their disappointment, he rolled, standing again and swaying with his hands drawn up only through muscle-memory. His consciousness was fading and more than a little of him would have been happy just to sit down right there on the canvas and wait until the strange, dull throbbing in his head had settled down. He couldn't yet feel the sharper pain of split skin, although clearly his eyebrow had just been bust open by the kick, for he barely saw Vinco coming back in for a follow-up attack, his left eye was so covered in a curtain of blood. He lunged on reflex, closing both eyes and trying to listen for the other boy's movements. The music, the crowd and the blow to the head made it much harder than blindfolded sparring in the Fowl Manor gym, but by pure luck he managed to land a glancing blow that at least made Vinco step back. As for damage-causing hits, he would need to recharge.

He opened his eyes and blinked, the world zooming in an out of focus along with his hearing. Something stood out from the roar of the crowd.

"Take him down!" Paul was screaming.

 _Great. Why don't you broadcast my next move, idiot?_

But as much as he hated it, Paul was right. If he could get Vinco on the canvas, he could throw some moves that would be unaffected by his opponent's size. Just as he so successfully had with Redwood.

The only thing he had left to him was the element of surprise. Having only ever seen him fight once live and a few times on poor-quality videos, Vinco would not know that it didn't make much of a difference to the young Butler whether he was bleeding or not.

He went in for the knee – knowing Vinco would step out of range – and then threw himself forward. It was a foolhardy move and one that earned him a clatter around the ear for his troubles. Vinco had been watching the last fight more closely than he'd hoped, of course.

But despite his recent weight loss, Dom could throw himself with more force than one would expect. That, coupled with momentum of being barrelled into by an unexpected weight and an even more unexpected attack, left Vinco with no other response but to try to land tactically as he fell flat on his back.

Which he did.

Dom was surprised at the speed in which the other boy moved, which was stupid, he berated himself. The boy didn't get to be regional champion by chance alone.

He tried to pull back, but because he had used a cross between a judo throw and a rugby tackle to down the larger boy, he found his arm trapped in a merciless grip.

 _Ah shit_.

This, was not good.

He writhed, rearing back, but Vinco had him. All trace of friendliness gone, Vinco showed why he was number one in his age group for the country, executing a pro arm-bar. Dom clasped his hands together and folded into it, trying to release the pressure on his elbow as Vinco tried to level his arm straight and bend the joint the exact opposite way to that which it was supposed to and force his opponent to lie chest-down on the canvas. It was almost impossible to get Domovoi Butler to release his hands when he clamped them together – as many an unfortunate Academy student had found – but Vinco was an expert. He immediately employed his toughest breaking technique, not willing to risk an escape if he worked his way up his list of options. Had he not undergone so much training against it and had he not been used to simply gritting his teeth and bearing it when he experienced pain, Dom surely would have yelled out. As it was, it was only his tendons that screamed in protest as his jaw tightened and squeaked against the rubber of his gumshield once more.

"Tap out already, kid," Vinco said through gritted teeth. "Don't make me break your arm."

But Dom threw himself like a bear in a leg-trap. It had the exact opposite effect to what he had hoped. Vinco was obviously _very_ adept at applying arm-bars, something Paul had neglected to tell him whilst warning him about the other boy's prowess as a fighter. Vinco flipped him over, twisting Dom's arm until it was crushed between his both legs and trapped him on the floor on his right side, ending up with his knee pressed against Dom's bleeding temple. The silken material of the shorts grew slowly damp, but still the younger boy didn't raise his free hand to pat the canvas in admission of defeat.

The crowd, who had never seen Flex pinned for so long, didn't know whether to cheer or boo.

"Come on, give it up. You've fought well. There's no shame in it!" Vinco tried again.

Dom lifted his hand… And reached over the knee clamped across his neck to snatch hold of his other again, pulling against Vinco's strength to relieve the strain by a few degrees. He kicked up a leg, trying to push it into Vinco's armpit and succeeding in kicking him in the collarbone.

Obviously frustrated he had managed to regain his counter-grip - and unwilling to receive another kick to the clavicle - Vinco used the strength in his legs to throw himself over – a full rotation – until Dom's hands parted company half a second before his wrists did with the rest of his arm, landing face-down on the canvas. The arm-bar was complete and Vinco took full advantage, levering on it. Dom gritted his teeth, arching his back in an effort to throw the other boy off his chest. But Vinco's legs were locked tight, calf flush against the back of his neck. Yet it wasn't over. So long as he was still moving, he only had to ride it out until the end of the round. If he only knew how many more seconds he had to withstand the agony in his arm…

"Tap out!" Vinco yelled at him, adding another few pounds of pressure.

Dom pushed himself onto his right elbow, shaking with the strain and kicking his left foot into Vinco's hip. It didn't have much effect beyond the older boy shifting his position so he couldn't so easily do it again.

"Just fecking tap already, kid!"

Dom couldn't risk bucking – if he did, he would probably dislocate his own elbow in the process.

 _How long?_

It couldn't be long now – could it?

Blood dripped steadily from his brow, splashing onto the off-white canvas. He wasn't worried. Or at least not about that. Head wounds always bled more than they should. But the seconds seemed to drag and his thoughts turns to things more important than getting a clatter round the ears from Paul. His career, for one. A badly-broken elbow could easily scupper his chances of making it as a Diamond.

He raised his free hand…

"Eight seconds, boy," a gruff voice shouted from the crowd. "Seven… Six… _breathe_ …"

Dom used the hand to instead to grab onto Vinco's ankle, jamming his thumb into the groove of the Achilles tendon and twisting mercilessly. Vinco made a noise of surprise, kicking out. His captive kept hold until the pressure released on his neck. Vinco kept the arm bar, but Dom closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose as best he could now that Vinco's leg wasn't crushing his windpipe to the cage-floor, zoning out from the pain.

"Five... four... _hold it!_ "

For some reason, he trusted the voice.

Vinco made one last ditch effort to regain a proper hold, Dom managing to grab hold of an ankle again and wrench it from his throat, buying him another second of oxygen before he would be forced back face-down on the canvas with Vinco's thigh squeezing his skull into the floor...

The whistle went.

The pressure on his arm released instantly.

Vinco was furious, but he was fair.

"Why didn't you tap?" he snapped.

Dom rolled onto his knees and pushed himself up on his good arm. He shook his head, breathing deeply, muscles trembling. He could see little, round, black voids in the powerful glare from the cage lights. Paul was screaming at him to go to his corner to… well, get screamed at at a closer range, presumably. He wiped at his head with the heel of his hand and squinted through the wire mesh, trying to catch sight of the person who had given him a time check, because for half a second, he had almost thought that it had been…

"Get over here boy – you want water or not?!" Paul yelled at him. "You've already used half your break laying around on the floor like a kicked cur!"

Dom managed to stumble a jog to the corner, biting the nozzle of the water bottle shoved through the mesh and choking down a few mouthfuls of cold, stale water. Paul was harsh, but he wasn't so stupid that he would throw away his chance to win a bet because he was trying to make a point. Or at least not today. The sweat beading on Dom's face and the stream of blood from his bust eyebrow was joined by a spray from the bottle and he shook it off, running his taped hands over his head. It hurt to bend his left arm. Considerably. That was going to make things difficult.

"Wake up! You're losing, you know that?!" Paul said and his eyes were almost… _panicked_. "You better beat this punk senseless or he's gonna drive you into the ground. You get yourself into something like that again and he'll finish you! Look at your damn head – what did you let him do that for? Your mother is going to flip! _Cutman_ – get over here!"

Billy was already there. He was well-versed in the trade, although he disliked the title. In actual terms, he was the fight doctor. Calling him a 'cutman' was, as far as he was concerned, like comparing a pilot to an air hostess. Yet still, his expertise made him an invaluable man to have in one's corner.

He beckoned Dom over. "Alright kid, lemme see that head."

Dom dipped his head obligingly towards the cage hatch and Billy shone a torchlight at him. He hissed through his teeth, but opened his 'box of tricks' all the same.

"Pressure," he said, handing the young fighter a cold, soaked towel whilst he rummaged for something else.

Dom crammed the fabric against his forehead, pressing painfully hard and closing his eyes.

"OK, _switch_ ," Billy said as he pulled a flat piece of metal with a plastic handle from a bag of ice and pressed it solidly against the cut. It was freezing, but Dom leaned into it. It was an Enswell – an eye iron – and its function was to reduce the swelling and compress the burst blood vessels, encouraging them to constrict. If they couldn't stop the bleeding, he couldn't fight on. Not even Eddie the gym owner could argue that with this many semi-professional coaches in the room. They may be willing to turn a blind eye to the betting going on, but some rules were in place for reasons that couldn't be ignored.

In the other corner Vinco was almost ready to go, refreshed by a drink of water, some words of praise, advice and a quick re-wrapping of his hands.

"Alright – grit your teeth, kid. You know the drill," Billy said and without further warning, pulled away the cool, comforting metal and replaced it with a cotton swab sodden in something of his own making. The stuff stunk like mouthwash and stung like a bitch, but whatever was in it worked wonders when it came to stopping blood.

Dom pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, flaring his nostrils in an effort to stop his eyes from watering from the smarting.

"Thirty seconds, fighters," the referee shouted.

Billy's face was stern with concentration as he unscrewed a tub one-handed, pulled the swab away and slathered the cut with another home-made salve.

"He's alright – yeah?" Paul asked.

Dom blinked, sliding the heel of one palm over the laceration again to clear the excess liniment. Surely Paul he wasn't bothered about him getting hurt… _was he?_

"Bill – come on! He can carry on _, right?"_ Paul demanded.

"Paul…" Billy said, with a grimace.

"Do you know how much money people have got riding on this fight? Do you know how much money _I_ have riding on this fight?! If we forfeit we lose, Billy. Just do your fucking job and get him back in the ring!"

 _Ah, that made more sense._

Well, it wasn't Dom's fault if the idiot had put a bet on him against the regional champion when he'd already fought against someone half again his size. Most likely it was the drink that had done that. Paul was always blowing cash on stupid odds. Dogs, horses… cage-fights. Didn't make a difference when he'd had a few tinnies.

Looked like he'd sobered up pretty well just now, though…

"Fine," Billy relented, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. He can fight on. But he's _concussed_ , Paul. You know what that means. If I get found out letting him continue... we're all in the shit."

"Fuck being concussed – you're fine, aren't you, son?"

Dom nodded steadily, despite the hated term, focussing himself. It was just a concussion. He could deal with that.

Billy shook his head and backed away. He clearly didn't agree with it, but he wasn't about to argue with Paul.

"So what are you waiting for?" Paul shouted at Dom. "Get back in there and fecking-well work hard. Rent's due and you don't want me to tell your mother we can't make it because you fucked up, do you?"

It was an empty threat. If Theresa found out Paul was making money off her son fighting, there would be an _argument_ for sure. And as much as Paul threw his weight around, he didn't purposefully seek out confrontations with the woman he supposedly loved. No, he saved that mostly for her son.

Dom shook his head wordlessly, still repaying his oxygen debt. What was _wrong_ with him? Normally he had the recovery rate of a seasoned Olympian. He felt almost _drugged_ \- and he wouldn't put it past Paul to do such a thing if he was _supposed_ to be losing, but quite clearly he was supposed to win this one. He could only think that the bout of hypothermia a few days ago must have taken its toll more than he had originally realised. He motioned for a drink and for once his request was answered, albeit grudgingly. He gulped down a few mouthfuls, swilling the last one around his gumshield and spitting it onto the floor. His saliva tasted of blood, but whether it was from his mouth or overspill from his head he was yet to determine. What he was fairly certain of - and his grandmother would certainly clip him around the ear if he was wrong - was that the water was clean. Untampered with. He only felt so rough because of the treatment he'd been putting his body through recently.

 _Urgh. This is what it must feel like to be average,_ he realised. He didn't like it.

He spat again, holding out the half-empty bottle to indicate he'd finished with it.

"Now go fucking show this crowd what I put you in the ring for. If you make me _look a fool_ …" Paul shook his head, leaving the statement hanging as he snatched the drink away from him and slamming the cage hatch. "Go on. _Fight_!"

Dom turned away, facing his opponent for the final round. If he didn't pull off a good-enough performance in the next five minutes, Vinco would win on points. Dom was used to winning on holds, tap-outs and knock-out blows. He'd have to be crafty to get enough hits in to even the scoreboard.

He rotated his wrists, bouncing on his feet and shaking his arms out before pulling his hands up to protect his face. But he couldn't wait for Vinco to bring the fight to him. After the last round's performance, the older boy could spend the whole round blocking and still win.

The referee held up his arms. Dom took a long, deep breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, his gaze mimicked that of his ancestors when they too had been faced with seemingly insurmountable odds and a reason to fight. Composed. Impassive. Resolute.

" _Fight_!"

Drawing on energy he barely ever had to remember he had left beyond his usual reserves, Dom flew forward the moment the word ended, backing Vinco into a corner. The other fighter fought back, kicking and punching, aiming his jabs specifically at Dom's injured left arm. The young Butler dropped that side to protect it, fighting forwards on his right foot, ducking and diving. He had three minutes. The points were close, but Vinco was earning as many as he could claw back.

What happened next was based far more on _instinct_ than training.

Vinco stepped in with a right-footed kick to the left side. Dom wasn't quite quick enough to back off, the bare heel of his opponent more than grazing his ribcage. Vinco brought his foot down as intended, ready to land a follow-up punch from the same side – his signature move with no option for his rival to counter it... Or at least he thought, for he was not expecting Dom to throw his full weight into a devastatingly forceful hook off his injured arm.

The punch was so hard Dom's damaged elbow buckled and he followed with his shoulder, leaping over his opponent's falling body. He tried to land the flip on his hands, but his elbow couldn't take the impact and instead he was forced to push off one palm, flicking onto to his feet and leaping around in one fluid motion, dizzyingly disorientated and certain he was about to get caught on the back of the head by a high-kick or something equally as unpleasant.

But the crowd was roaring, half in dismay, half in triumph.

Dom was confused. He usually performed such feats of gymnastics without _excessive_ reaction from the crowd. After all, most of them who had seen him fight before would be surprised they hadn't seen something of the likes yet tonight already. One time, he had run up the cage fencing and flipped over backwards onto his opponent in something more akin to a staged wrestling move than a cage-fight…

But then he noticed.

Vinco was still down.

"10… 9… 8…" the crowd roared, many of them yelling at Dom to step in and finish the job. But there was no honour in kicking a man when he was down, even if it was legal in cage-fighting.

"…7…6…5…"

Dom kept his guard up, panting heavily. He should dive in for a pin - the other boy would be up any second, he was sure of it. But he stayed back, taking full advantage of the reprise in case it was very short. The seconds ticked by…

"…4…3…2…"

The ref stepped forward, kneeling and flipping Vinco over onto his back.

The sixteen-year-old didn't move. For a second Dom felt his stomach drop. What if he had hit the boy harder than he thought?

Vinco's limbs lolled uselessly and his eyes were rolled back in his head, the whites showing through flickering eyelids.

"…1 – _Knockout!"_

The ref leapt up, grasping Dom's arm – the sore one, not that it mattered anymore – and throwing it to the sky.

Dom turned his head, still trying to keep Vinco in view. Why wasn't he up yet? Why wasn't he moving…

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have your _winner_!" Eddie was whooping into the mic. "What did I tell you people? Never judge a book by its cover - or its record. The winner, by a knock-out blow... I give you… our home-grown hero, _Flex!"_

Dom didn't _feel_ like a hero. Billy had already entered the cage by now. He looked serious and concerned. The fight doctor dropped to his knees, thumbing Vinco's eyelids and patting his face.

Dom felt sick, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He hadn't meant to hit him that hard…

He hadn't meant to…

He hadn't...

But then, suddenly;

"Aaand there we are, _wakey-wakey_ , Vinco – nice to have you back, boy – you just got _Fuh-fuh-flexed_! How do you feel?" Eddie shouted, the crowd laughing and booing raucously.

Dom twisted around to see for himself and felt relief flooding through his limbs when he saw that the other boy was stirring, probably with no idea why he was flat on his back in the middle of a cage. Or at least he wouldn't for a few more seconds until his memory rebooted or Eddie's loud mocking sunk it.

"That's two winning streaks broken in one evening by our very own junior champ-beater!" Eddie informed the room. "Maybe we should give him a new nickname – how's Broken Record sound for you, Flex?"

Dom managed to shake his head as he was dragged out of a second cage door which did not lead to the changing rooms. Eddie laughed off something about him preferring the sound of 'Flex' anyway. People were clawing at him like a hoard of zombies and the fight staff were forced to clear a path ahead of him up to the stage where the other winners were already seated. Suddenly Paul was in his face, snaking an arm over his shoulders and drawing their heads together with a roar of triumph, grinning like a maniac.

"I knew you had it in you, you little shite! Just wanted to give us a show, eh?" he bellowed, clapping him on the shoulder heavily.

Dom _hated_ that Paul was always over-friendly when he'd won him money.

"We're rich, son! We're fucking _rich_!"

But not as much as he hated Paul calling him _'son'_.

Dom had no idea how much money he'd just earned the man, but by the way Paul was acting, he imagined it was a lot. There was the silver lining, at least. Maybe his mother would get some nice trinket or other she'd have to pretend she adored. Or else, less likely but more usefully, she wouldn't have to worry about the rent on the flat for a few months...

"Alright, move back, move _back,_ would ya? – Let the kid breathe!" Paul bellowed over the deafening roars and stomping of the appreciative mob.

Dom couldn't see anything beyond the lights glaring in his face. His elbow was throbbing, his head was banging, the floor was swaying and to top it off he still felt like he was going to puke. He viscously hoped Paul got the spray-back from it if he did...

One of the other winners from the open-age bracket grabbed his hand to shake it forcibly, congratulating him loudly.

"I ain't _never_ seen fighting like that before! _Never_!" he told him, shaking his head. "Who else trains you, kid?"

"It's all me," Paul said self-importantly, leaning in to catch every word of praise as though it was his own to receive. "You should know that, Brickie."

Dom almost clocked him one right then and there in front of everyone. The pompous prick was claiming the credit not only for his hard work, but for the many, _many_ years his uncle and grandfather had been training him and the three hard years he had spent at The Academy honing his skills.

"Aye but I thought… Well – good job, Paul. And I mean, _Jay-sus H Christ_ , kid, I ain't looking forward to you joining my age-group," the man laughed, still not releasing his tight grip on his hand after the handshake. Dom recognised him. His cage name was 'The Bricklayer' – a man Dom had never had a reason to dislike and who had once bought him an energy bar from the vending machine when Paul had brought him straight from school to train and neglected to bring him any food. He'd even sparred with him before. Although of course he'd had to fake being merely above average for his age-group rather than above average in general. The man locked eyes with him and – so fast Dom couldn't be sure if it was a trick of the revolving lights – winked, clapping both hands together over Dom's and curling his fingers for him.

Dom kept his hand clenched, for suddenly transferred into it was a small, flat, flexible object with one edge harder than the other. He frowned, trying to work out what it was. He couldn't risk opening his hand to look at it, so he took the offered towel with his other and draped it over his neck. When the adrenalin in his system had settled somewhat, he thought to check the cage again for Vinco – but he was gone, most likely shepherded off for treatment by Billy. Dom hoped he'd be OK. He had never seriously injured someone who wasn't fully aware of the risks of taking him on before now. Fellow Blue Diamond trainees didn't count. He was already a topic of Academy gossip for knocking out a student two Tiers his senior who had thought it would be a feather in his cap to 'teach the cocky little Butler bastard a lesson'. What the older boy had failed to recognise, was that Dom only appeared arrogant because he rightfully could be without it ending in his humiliation at the hands of another.

The gathering of the winners on the stage was mostly for the photo that would be added to the gallery Eddie kept of all the winners of the New Year tournament from the past thirty years or so. It wouldn't be taken until the result of the final fight – the one which many men had boisterously offered their names up for and were now laughing far more nervously than they were before.

"Alright, as the tradition goes," Eddie said, hefting a box to the middle of the stage. "The youngest and oldest – sorry to say it Brickie, old boy – " – the thirty-eight year old fighter who had shook Dom's hand made a faux-swing at the commentator who ducked dramatically – " – winners of tonight, pull the names. So here we go, I'd say age before beauty, but with the faces on the pair of you two it's hard to judge…"

The crowd guffawed.

"Let's go with youngest first…"

The lid of the box was opened and Eddie offered it out to him. Dom took his closed fist, plunging it into the folded papers.

"Rustle around, lad, rustle around!" he instructed. "That's it – like you're sticking your hand up a lady's skir… t'ah-ha-ha, no, no – my bad, you're too young for that yet, Flexy-boy!"

He planted a hand on his skull and jiggled it as though scruffing up his short hair fondly. The crowd roared with laughter again and Eddie made a great show of looking disgusted at the blood-stopping slime he'd just transferred to his hand, wiping it down Dom's back theatrically.

The boy wasn't interested in the clowning around. He clenched his fist around what he had quite suddenly realised was a name slip. He daren't look back at Brickie, but he could feel his eyes on him. _If this was a trick…_ Dom pulled out his hand and opened it. Cupped in his palm was a triangular slip of folded paper. He almost smiled. His uncle folded crisp packets like that. On the rare occasion that he indulged in such an unhealthy snack, of course.

"OK, first up…" Eddie said, snatching the slip and unfolding it quickly. "Mick Kendrew. Do we have a _Mick Kendrew_ in the audience? Give us a wave, Mickey-boy!"

A large man in a cap raised his hand in acknowledgement.

"Excellent! Get yourself to the dressing room sir and we'll get you fitted with some kit – Bejaysus, if we've got shorts big enough for you!" he added with a chuckle as the crowd cleared to let him through.

Dom squinted out across the crowd, but the lights in his face meant he couldn't see much beyond milling shadows and glints of pint glasses.

"Alright – your turn Brick-meister," said Eddie, holding out the wooden box again.

Brickie made a great show of rubbing his hands together before he plunged a closed fist into the box as though punching it and pulled out a scrunched slip of paper.

"And facing the big feller over there is…"

Eddie paused, almost as though he was reluctant to read out the name on the slip.

"… our very own..."

Dom's subconscious guessed _why_ that was before the rest of his rattled brain could catch up. He stared at Eddie, as fixated as the rest of the room.

 _"Paul Grant_."

* * *

 **Ahh bit of a cliffy for ya!**

 **So. Pa Butler's plan of using Mick Kendrew to carry out a favour is coming together nicely, it would seem. But is it going to work or is Paul going to weasel his way out of it or what?**

 **I'd say 'answers on a postcard!', but that'd take weeks to get all the replies in and I'm thinking you'll all be wanting the next chapter quicker than that, am I right?**

 **I was glad to hear that people could 'see' the fight in front of them in the last chapter, but I feel like some of this one's fight-scene got a little messy and hard to follow at times. So I hope you all got the gist of it and you're still enjoying the fic :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **06/02/16**


	12. Chapter 11: Friendly Fire

**Thanks to: Jolinnn, write that wrong, P.S. Sword, Readergirl99, Guest, Sana Lama Samaha, Steinbock, HolidayBoredom and Alchemechanist for the reviews - it was great to hear how much you all enjoyed that last fight scene and how much you're looking forward to the next! Please realise that right now typing this I'm just sat here grinning at my computer screen at all the amazing compliments on them. I really enjoy writing them, so hearing just how much you all enjoy them is epic. _Really_ epic. So a** **really big thank-you for letting me know :)**

 **And just look - you fabulous, awesome, epic people - you've got me to 100 reviews!**

 **One _Hundred_.**

 **I don't think I've ever got this many reviews so quickly, so an extra thanks for the 100 quirky little smirks I did when the email notification buzzed my phone and I saw the line "Review: Just Reckoning". If you don't write, you won't really know, but trust me; it really is the best to hear how much people actually enjoy your work :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: I know you're all chomping the bit for a Paul showdown, but take this as your breather chapter. Slightly shorter, contains some important stuff, though. Low on the action, high on the swearing and offensive language. Warning heeded? Good. Continue.**

 **Onwards!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ELEVEN - Friendly Fire**

 _ **1) Weapon fire from an allied force, distinguished from that of an enemy  
2) An attack on one's own allies, usually caused by a misjudgement or error**_

 **Eddie O'Connell's 'Fighting Talk' Gym, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve**

Paul's jaw dropped and for one glorious second he gaped like a hooked fish – Dom committed the sight to memory to laugh at later – before switching on his bravado and pumping his fists to the sky.

"Coming out of retirement for one night only!" he roared, to the delight of the crowd.

Dom was very, _very_ glad it hadn't been him to pick out Paul's name. It was bad enough he'd 'picked out' the opponent. _Kendrew_... he recognised the name, he was sure of it. It itched at his rather tender cranium, but he had had one too many knocks to the head to work out where he had heard it before tonight. Nevertheless, he sensed a set up here. If Paul _lost…_ But then again, Paul _wouldn't_ lose. He was a vicious fighter in the cage, from what Dom had heard. The other guy, as big as he was, had probably never fought in a cage in his life. Dom felt some sympathy for him, having been on the end of Paul Grant's knuckles more times than he cared to count. At least this man had, presumably, willingly volunteered for the treatment in one form or another.

"Alright boys, off you go to the dressing rooms. Meet back here in fifteen for the big fight of the evening! And I gotta say ladies and gents, you think Flex is good... Well, let's just say the student ain't got nothing on the master!" Eddie babbled, before turning off his mic and chucking it onto the desk next to the abandoned paper slips.

He gave Paul a decidedly nervous acknowledgement as the man beckoned him over, all bared teeth and false joviality. Dom knew that look and decided that the best place for him to be right now was _well away_ from his wannabe step father. He would not be paid good money to be Eddie O'Connell right now...

Dom followed the other winners back to the dressing rooms, merging into the flow of people, head down and intent on putting as many walls and doors as possible between himself and Paul Grant, before the man somehow decided this was _his_ fault and came looking for him... Which was why he almost bumped into a fully-conscious Vinco.

"Hey – you," the fellow fighter said, grabbing Dom by the shoulder.

" _Back off_!" the young Butler barked, although the reaction would have been far more explosive had he not felt like he'd just finished a couple of rounds with a gorilla in a cement mixer. As it was, he still threw up his hands in defence, knocking away the hand, feet planting instinctively and eyes narrowing to take in the assessed threat level of his latest attacker.

"Woah – chill! Just wanted to say; good fight, man. _Real_ good fight."

Dom relaxed somewhat, dropping his head and shrugging. "Same to you. Sorry I knocked you out."

" _Sorry_? Nah – don't apologise for a good hit," Vinco said sincerely. "And a _very_ good hit at that! Well, from what my coach tells me! I never saw it coming! How's your arm?"

"Fucked, I think," Dom admitted amicably. "For a couple of weeks or so at least, I'd reckon."

"Jeeze, I'm sorry, man. I had to do it - seemed like the only way to have you! You shoulda tapped, though."

"Had to win," Dom shrugged. "Not your fault."

"And how's your head?" Vinco gestured.

"Oh that?" Dom said, brushing a hand over the 'superficial' wound. "Fine."

"The doc told me he wants to see you for it again."

"Yeah, I guessed he would."

There was a moment of silence where the older boy seemed to be working up to asking a question and the younger let him do so.

"That coach of yours… he's fighting next, right? He teach you everything you know?" Vinco asked, curiously.

"No," Dom growled, prickled by the inference. "I mean yeah, that's my… coach, I guess. Corner man or whatever. But no. He didn't teach me shit."

"That's not what _he_ says."

Dom shrugged again, unwilling to get into a conversation about it. "He says a lot, to be honest."

"You don't seem to like him much."

Dom said nothing.

Vinco nodded.

"I get it. You don't want to talk about it. I'll shut up. My Dad called me _Vinco_ , my Mam reckons _Garulla_ would have been a better one," he laughed. "But you probably don't get why that's funny. That's not an insult, by the way. Pops just thinks he's clever using fancy words no _normal_ people have ever heard of."

"I think Vinco's alright," Dom told him. "Better than _Flex_ , anyway."

"Maybe," he admitted. "But it's pretty ironic today..."

"You mean 'cause it means 'winner' or something, doesn't it? 'Conqueror'? Something like that."

"Yeah!" Vinco exclaimed, surprised. "I mean, my Dad chose it because 'Vince' is my actual name and because I win a lot. Well, usually! What's yours – Felix or something? Alex?"

"No," the young Butler almost smiled. His grandfather's name was Alexandr, after all – although he had only ever heard his grandmother call him 'Xandr' or 'Xan' or even 'Xandi', when she wasn't referring to him in fond expletives. "It's Dom."

"Oh. Well hey, Dom. I'm Vince, please for the love of God; don't call me _Vinco_ when we aren't fighting," he requested with a shudder.

"Only if you don't call me Flex," Dom replied with a cringe.

"Deal," Vince said, offering his hand.

The junior cage-fighters shook hands, both smiling slightly with the air of a budding friendship – or at the very least a truce.

"Who do you know that knows Latin these days, anyway?" Vince asked as they set off down the corridor towards the dressing-rooms.

"A couple of my mates do," Dom shrugged. "I'm guessing ' _Garulla'_ means something like 'talkative', right?"

"Along those lines. Who the hell do you hang around with?" Vinco asked with a laugh.

Dom almost returned the chuckle. Would the boy believe him if he named a crime-lord billionaire's son, a devout Christian Australian and the son of one of the only female mob-bosses in Italy as his regular, Latin-speaking cohorts? Doubtful.

He shrugged instead. "You know. Smart folks."

"Well whoever they are, I…"

But Dom never found out what exactly Vinco thought of the people he consorted with with, for at that moment, the corridor became considerably more crowded as a dressing-room door opened and from it emerged Redwood, accompanied by three of his apparent cronies.

"Oi you!"

"Oh hey - erm... Redwood, isn't it?" Vinco asked sociably. "Good fight earlier. You've got a really nice kick on you, you know? Need to work on your blocks, mind you. But hey, I can't talk. Flex here took me down too - you probably saw. Were you watching the fight? I'm hoping we can get some footage of it so I can laugh at it back home. Must have looked aweso…"

"Shut it, dickhead! I'm not talking to you – I'm talking to _that_ piece of shit," Redwood snarled, jabbing a finger at the shorter of the pair facing him in the corridor.

"Careful who you're calling _shit_ ," Dom said, coolly. "I just beat you, remember?"

"With some dirty fucking moves that _shithead_ Grant taught you," Redwood spat at him.

"Great. My corner man is a shithead. There's something we can both agree on," Dom said bluntly. "Now can we put this behind us? I'm done with fighting for tonight."

"Oh hear that, boys? The famous Flex is fed up of fighting. Well guess what? I'm _not_."

And with that he surged forward.

The Butler boy countered the first punch purely on instinct, but Redwood wasn't alone this time and with his elbow was only semi-functional, Dom pre-empted problems if friend on the left decided to jump in. Luckily for Dom, Vinco decided to intervene. He downed the new fighter easily, leaving Dom to deal with Redwood. It would be one of the last times Domovoi Butler would ever have to jump to headbutt anyone, but he did so, catching Redwood full in the nose. It exploded with a crack. It also hurt like hell for the instigator, for his eyebrow split open again spectacularly. Dom continued the manoeuvre regardless as he landed and trod down heavily on the taller boy's foot, simultaneously shoving him in the chest. _Hard_. Redwood pin-wheeled comically, but unable to rebalance with his foot pinned, landed solidly on his coccyx on the concrete floor. He rolled sideways, groaning in pain and covering his face. His friend on the right took one look at them and scarpered. The boy Vinco had dealt with scooted backwards until he hit a wall, then scrambled to his feet and went running after the other, stumbling as he went.

"Fucking _cowards_ ," Dom spat on the floor, raising his foot as though to kick the still prone and groaning Redwood in the ribs. He was _sorely_ tempted.

 _Restraint is an important characteristic of a Blue Diamond. There are many situations where you will be lured by temptation and you must resist. A Blue Diamond does **not** fold to the pressures of rage or lust._

Domovoi stepped lithely over his fallen foe and continued his way down the corridor at a swift stride before he changed his mind.

"Nice headbutt, Flex," Vinco said, skirting Redwood and raising his eyebrows, impressed.

"Cheers for not letting those dickheads join in, Vinco."

Vince grinned.

"My pleasure."

From whence they'd came, loud voices suddenly started echoing through the barren passageways.

"Best split," Dom warned. "Someone's going to hear about this soon enough."

"I'll back you up if you want?" Vinco said, almost jogging alongside him as they headed for the medical room. " _Totally_ self-defence. That prick was gunning for you."

"Thanks, but I don't want to get you into any trouble."

"Nah, it's reet. Trust me. No-one's going to lay a _finger_ on me. My father would flip his lid."

Dom felt a strange pang of jealousy at that, but shrugged.

"He wanted to see you too, actually."

"Well, you know," Dom said, unwilling to meet any more new people this evening. "Gotta get post-checked by the doc, like you said. Maybe later."

"Your head's split again," Vinco pointed out. "Gonna need that stitched."

Dom wiped at it absently. "Maybe. Gotta go anyway. Anyone who wins has to get a drugs test and all that."

"What? They do that for our age group?!"

Dom side-eyed him. "Welcome to the backstreets of Dublin, Vince."

Vinco laughed again. "Would you mind if my Pops came and chatted to you, though?"

Dom chewed his lip. He should be keeping a low profile about these extra-curricular activities. If Ko heard he was making himself known in the cage-fighting world, she would _not_ be pleased.

 _You are wasting your talent picking up bad habits and risking your physical integrity playing **games** with children? Are you so conceited you think that fame in a meaningless circle will further your progress? Is this how I taught you, boy? I think not! If you want to become infamous you should train harder! If you **must** f_ _ight in your downtime, train with your family! Heaven knows you are the luckiest student in my Academy for that!_

That last part she had said once before, upon hearing from his martial arts instructor, Charley Van Penrose, the opinion that he was over-training himself during rest periods. It was the closest she'd ever got to verbally complimenting his uncle. He supposed he should tell the man when he next saw him...

As for meeting Vince's father, he supposed the other teen would talk to his dad anyway. And speaking to him was unlikely to do any more harm than he already had this evening…

"Sure," he said after a second. "So long as he doesn't want to kill me for knocking you out."

Vinco grinned. "Nah - 'course he won't. He thinks you're pretty awesome, actually. I'll bring him to the doc's room then, shall I?"

"Fine by me," Dom shrugged once more.

"Cool," said Vinco, turning to jog back to the ringside. "Oh – and you're covered in Redwood's claret, by the way. Might wanna fix that before the doc sees."

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks," Dom said, wiping his shirt futilely. He'd have to handwash it to avoid his mother worrying. Luckily, 'getting blood out of clothing' had been covered in a lesson he'd been taught back in Tier Two. "Hopefully he'll just think it's mine."

He stole a towel from a nearby changing room and cleaned himself up best he could as he walked, but anything left he would have to explain away as his eyebrow and hope Billy was too eager to go watch the fight to question him too deeply.

* * *

"How did this happen?" he demanded in a low hiss. "What the fuck is going on, Eddie? Is this a set-up? Do you think this is fucking funny?!"

"Alright, alright. Calm it down, me old mucker," Eddie O'Connell said nervously. "I know this looks bad..."

"Bad? _Bad_? Oh no, Eddie - this is all fucking _rosy_!" Grant snapped, pacing the changing room like a caged lion. "I'll _show_ you bad!"

"Now come on, Paul. _You_ was the one that you put your name in..."

"Did I fuck put my name in! _You_ were supposed to leave it out, you stupid bastard!"

"Well the chances o' your name comin' up was..."

"I ain't trained in _years!_ " Paul continued, ragingly. "What were you playing at reading my name out? You could have said any fucker in the room!"

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry - I just... I just panicked!" the gym owner said, wringing his hands together. "And I thought, well..."

"Oh g'won, g'won, Eddie," Paul snorted scornfully, crushing his half-empty beer can in one hand and throwing it viscously at the small waste-paper basket in the corner of the room. "What the fuck was you _thinking_ in that fucking thick-as-pig-shit skull of yours?! I got a reputation to keep! What if this fucker turns out to be good and I end up looking a fool, eh? Did you _think_ of that, dipshit?"

"Well, this guy is a utter naybody," Eddie appealed helplessly. "Ain't nobody heard of 'im ever."

"So where the fuck'de come from, then?! He didn't just feckin' materialise outta the feckin' air!"

"I dunno! 'E be saying he's local - but I sure as shit in a pan ain't seen 'im abouts..."

"And you say nobody knows him?" Paul said, contemplating as he strode.

"Nope," O'Connell swallowed nervously, eyes flitting left and right as the man passed him.

"So what _do_ we know about this Kendrick feller?"

"Kendrew..."

"I couldn't give a toss if 'e said 'is name is Elvis _fecking_ Presley - tell me what he can do before I beat it out of you!"

"Well he's a pretty big feller, so..."

"Oh really? Oh feckin' _really_? Well fuck me backwards with a barge pole, Eddie!" Paul exclaimed in mock-awe. "I hadn't so much as thought of that!"

"Well he's about six ten and..."

"I was being _sarcastic_ , you fucking idiot!" Paul all-but roared. "What do you know about the goddamn guy?!"

Eddie felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead.

"Well..."

"Well?" Paul snapped. "Spit it out, man! We haven't got all night - thanks to you, you feckin' cloth-headed cunt!"

"He said he was only here tonight as a favour for a mate of 'is and thought he'd put 'is name in for a laugh," Eddie said hurriedly.

" _Mate_?" Paul paused his pacing and leered suspiciously. "What ' _mate'_? Who the fuck brought 'im 'ere?"

Eddie shrugged. "Didn't say... Ah... I didn't ask, to be honest..."

"Well ain't you a regular fecking Sherlock? Jaysus H Christ, Eddie - I told you to find out summit about the sucker when you dropped _off_ his feckin' fight kecks! Not _drop_ his feckin' civvy kecks and _suck_ 'im _off_!"

"W...what?" Eddie stuttered, highly offended. "I wasn't... What the feck are you on about, Paul?"

"Well what the fuck _were_ you doing in there for ten minutes if you weren't finding sweet-FA out about him other than he's a _'pretty big feller_ ', dickhead?"

Eddie grimaced. "Well I dunno 'e's all _elusavive_ and that, innit? I didn't right notice 'e hadn't told me much 'til you jus' aksed!"

"Elu- _what_? Talk straight, man! Dammit Eddie - you know I ain't got the patience for bullshit when I've 'ad a drink!"

Eddie would vouch the man didn't have much patience when he was sober, either.

"Erm... well..."

Paul lost his temper.

Which although was not a rare occurrence, Eddie being on the receiving end of his wrath certainly was. He lurched forward, grabbing the gym owner by the lapels of his self-branded jacket and slamming him against the nearest solid surface.

"Tell me who the fuck this guy is before I put you through this feckin' wall, I swear to _God_!"

"There ain't owt to tell!" Eddie yelped, cowering. "I'm tellin' ya - he's a nobody! And well - I think you'll be reet fightin' 'im! What with you bein' pretty damn good when you was in your prime an' all an'..."

" _Pretty damn good?_ You cheeky fucking shite I was the _best_! The goddamn, motherfuckin' ' _King of the Cage'!"_ Paul scoffed, dropping his friend and storming away again. "Fuckin' _good_ , indeed..."

"Well exactly... so I went to thinkin' that since you..." Eddie almost whimpered.

" _Was_!" Paul reiterated savagely. " _Was_ the best! Before I buggered up my knee, went into retirement and spent five years o' me feckin' life training _that_ little cunt out there to earn me some damn cash as payback for putting up with 'is ungrateful arse!"

"Well you's trained him damn well judgin' by tonight so..."

"That ain't the fucking point!" Paul bellowed, frothy spittle launching from his mouth. "I already said I've been on the beers! Do I look ready to fight? I'm half-cut and dog-tired from workin' and shit!"

Eddie knew that last part was a lie and he was not surprised about the first. Paul had been out of work for some weeks now and, as a borderline alcoholic, hardly a day went by where he didn't function at a perfectly average level of his personal performance with a keg of ale in his belly.

"I thought ya said you was always ready to fight Pau..." he risked quietly, cringing when the man spun to face him, eyes glaring from the enraged face.

"Shut your fucking trap, Eddie!" he spat. "And go get me some damn kit!"

* * *

Dom knocked on the door marked in red paint with the word 'MEDIC' for that second time that evening.

"Yeah, come in!"

Dom entered, crossing paths with 'The Brickie' who was on his way out.

"Oh, hey Flex. I'll be with you in a tic," Billy said, putting away whatever he'd used on the older man.

"I meant what I said about your fighting today, kid," Brick said with a smile as they sidestepped eachother in the narrow doorway. "You're _really_ fecking good. A natural."

"Cheers," Dom nodded slowly. "Maybe you'll see where some of my moves come from in this next fight."

Brick snorted, zipping up his post-fight hoodie. "Doubt it. I used to fight with Paul Grant. Yours ain't his style. Dunno where you got it from, but it wa'nt Paul."

"What about the other guy – Kendrew, wasn't it? You know him?" Dom fished.

"Nope," Brick shook his head. "Never seen him before in my life. Hell of a big feller, though. Should be a good match. You watching it?"

Either the man was a good liar, or he genuinely had had no idea what name had been on the slip he had planted in Dom's hand.

"Wouldn't miss it," the boy said honestly.

"I'll buy you a drink if I see you – I had some coins on you tonight and you came good for us all."

"Cheers. You're welcome," Dom said, a little self-consciously. It made him feel strange that his action either earnt or cost other people money. But if they wanted to bet their hard-earned cash on him, it wasn't his place to tell them not to.

"See you later then, Flex-kid," Brick said, closing the door behind him.

Dom listened to his footfalls down the corridor, half-tempted to follow him and quiz the man in private about the slip of paper he had folded into his hand…

"Come on, hurry up would ya? I gotta sort that head of yours," Billy grouched. "And I'm as keen as anyone to see if Paul's still got it."

Dom jumped up on the table, wincing as his elbow more than just _twinged_ at the second of weight-bearing he'd asked of it.

Billy handed him another cold compress for his head and noted that he chose his opposite hand to hold the cloth to his head, despite the awkward angle.

"Hmm. Shoulda tapped out on that arm-bar, kid," Billy nodded, taking hold of his free arm and extending it carefully.

"Maybe. But then I wouldn't have won," Dom said nonchalantly, pressing harder to distract himself from the pain in his arm-joint.

"I'll wrap this for you, shall I?" the medic said, seeing straight through the bravado.

He shot both sleeves and procured a bandage from a box.

"You missed Christmas," Dom remarked, allowing him to bind his arm anyway. He could always take it off when he got home and allow gentle use to keep the joint moving.

"Smart arse," Billy said, flicking him on the ear.

Once he'd bound his elbow, Billy gently pried his hand off his eyebrow and hissed through his teeth again.

"Right. I'm going to steri-strip it," he said. "Looks like you'll get away without real stitches, but if it looks like it's going manky, you pop yourself down to A&E, alright? And don't let Paul tell you otherwise. Say you fell and hit on a climbing frame or something. It'll look about right for an impact split like that. You shouldn't get asked any questions."

Dom muttered an affirmative as Billy began to press thin strips of material over his wound, suturing it shut. When he was done, Billy checked Dom's eyes again, prodding a finger at his forehead suspiciously. He would have noticed a further head injury, even in the heat of the fight. This was a new one.

"Don't remember seeing you butt anyone today," he said doubtfully, eyeing the bloodstained hoodie. That was a lot of blood for a congealing wound to spill... "Been doing some extracurricular in the corridors?"

"Not unless someone has proof," Dom said with a slight smirk.

" _Trouble_ , you are, kid – you know that?" Billy chuckled.

"Would rather _be_ it than be _in_ it," Dom quipped.

"Alright. You're good to go. You wanna sit with me in the medic box to watch this?"

"Really?" Dom asked, surprised.

"'Course. Just tell Paul you wanted to watch him fight up-close to pick up some moves," Billy said with a grin. "I'll just lock up here before some nob thinks it's a swell idea to nick off with my painkiller supply…"

Dom slid his sleeve back down and headed for the door. There was a knock as he reached it and so the man behind it was startled by the immediate response.

"Oh. Hello," he said, instantly thrusting his hand in Dom's direction the moment he opened the door. "My name is Francis Devlin – you've met my son, Vincent."

Vinco rolled his eyes from behind his father and Dom took the offered handshake.

"You could say that, sir," Dom said, well-used to conversing with the higher classes, which he now saw the Devlins clearly were. "He's got quite a punch on him. Must have a good trainer."

"Well, he should the amount I pay for it!" Francis Devlin laughed, but although Dom had meant it as a compliment to him, it turned out that it had been too quick an assumption to think that Vince was also trained by a father-figure.

Dom raised his eyebrows slightly. He had already picked Vince as better-off than himself, but that was not exactly hard. He wondered briefly if he'd just beaten the son of the Fowl-equivalent of the cage-fighting world.

"Pops pays for me to have the best trainer in the country," Vince shrugged as though this was no big deal. "And since you beat me, he wanted to talk to you about employing yours alongside mine to see what he could learn."

"So this Paul Grant feller – he trains you, right? Best be quick – I want to see him in action. Great fortune him being picked, right?" Francis chattered.

Dom's stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if the Devlins had somehow fixed it that Paul would be fighting and wondered briefly if the Kendrew guy was Vince's trainer. He didn't know. But what he did know, was that he did _not_ want to get involved in some sort of 'my trainer is better than yours' situation. For in reality, Paul had taught him nothing - except maybe how to take a drunken hit. And should that be found out, the training of ' _Domonic Brady_ ' might be looked into a little more closely than he would like. It would not be good for his future – or indeed his present – if it he was found out to be student of an elite Academy from one of the most infamous bodyguarding families in the world.

"Yeah. Something like that. But sir, I've got to warn you, that… erm... Paul's been out of action for a few years now. He probably won't be on top form anymore," he said, trying to think of a way to put Mr Devlin off.

"I'm sure you're just defending him. The way you fight boy… Well, whoever taught you that is a genius."

"Not a genius, sir. They're just very good at what they do."

"Wait - _'they'_ as in multiple people?" Devlin jumped on the pronoun. "Who else trains you?"

"Well it's not _just_ Paul. I… I train at different clubs for all my disciplines," he lied quickly. "So really, I'm only this good because of a combination of people. Paul just makes sure I keep up with my training."

"Oh. I see," Vince's father said, obviously contemplating whether it was something 'money couldn't buy' that was the reason this understated teen in front of him was so good at what he did. Raw talent couldn't be bought, after all. "Nevertheless, I'd like to see this Grant fellow in action."

"Me too, I haven't seen him fight..." Dom realised what he'd said, adding quickly; "...for years. Should be a good show."

Fully aware that he might just have talked Paul out of an expensive contract, whilst simultaneously talking himself out of trouble, Dom ran a hand over his head and maintained his outward composure.

"So I'll tell Paul you asked after him, shall I, sir?" he said smoothly, intending to wrap up the conversation with that.

"That would be excellent ah... sorry – what did you say your name was?" the man said, flicking through a small pad of paper he procured from his pocket. "Dom Grant?"

"Brady," the Butler boy corrected him. "Domonic Brady."

"Oh – my apologies I thought your surname was Grant," Mr Devlin said, taking out a pen and making an amendment to his scribbled notes.

"My mother's name," Dom said, by way of explanation.

"Oh I see – and you didn't take your step-father's name?"

"He's not my step-father," Dom said swiftly.

"Really? He said he was when I spoke to him briefly earlier…"

"He's not my step-father _yet_ ," Dom amended, trying hard to keep the resentment from his voice at the suggestion he someday would have to stop correcting people on that front.

"Ah I see! Well, it's been excellent talking to you, Domonic."

"Just Dom, please - no-one calls me Domonic," he said truthfully.

"Ah I see!" Mr Devlin said for the umpteenth time. He seemed to be rather fond of the phrase. "You're more like Vincent here than I thought! You boys always shortening your names. You'd think with a name like Francis I'd join in!"

Dom smiled respectfully as the man tittered at his own joke and his son rolled his eyes.

The slam of the door interrupted them and Billy joined them with a first-aid bag slung over one shoulder.

"Alright, everyone? Nobody needs anything before I lock up, do they?"

"No – we were just going to watch the fight," Francis said, offering his hand again and shaking the medic's free one heartily. "Although of course, I cannot possibly pass up the opportunity to thank you for treating Vinco here. The nature of the game means men like you are much appreciated. Priceless, even. I mean, it's getting safer these days – and that's a fact Missus Devlin and I are grateful for, believe me – but boys will be boy, eh? And especially with ones like this tyke in the ring!"

He chuckled the last bit and Dom managed to laugh off the light punch he dealt to his shoulder.

Muffled by the walls, there was a roar from the crowd and Billy swore under his breath.

"The buggers have started without us, it seems," he said. "I've told them they ain't supposed to start swinging without a medic onsite, but will they listen? You coming, Dom?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Well, I'm sure we'll meet again, young Flex!" Vinco's father called over his shoulder as he led the way down the corridor.

"Sure. It's been nice to meet you, Mr Devlin," Dom said, which wasn't exactly a lie. The man seemed one of life's good guys, on the whole. And he was rarely wrong in his judgement of people.

 _Except Paul_ , his subconscious reminded him. _You used to think he was one of the good guys too._

He silenced it with the image of the man's shocked face not half an hour earlier.

"Likewise," Mr Devlin replied, tipping an imaginary hat and heading for the ring-side.

"Enjoy the fight," Vince said as a parting comment, before following his father to the main crowd standing.

"Yeah you too."

And as Dom followed Billy to the medic's box, he very much hoped he would.

* * *

 **OK, OK, so I apologise for that not being the chapter with the fight between one Paul Grant and a Mister Mick Kendrew. Absolutely top points to anyone who thinks they recognise the name from one of my other fics. If not, I'm pretty sure you're gonna love him. In fact, from the response to the proximity of his showdown with Paul, I'm willing to bet most of you already do ;)**

 **And if you found Paul's rant in this offensive - good. You ain't supposed to like the bastard!**

 **Next chapter: The Just Reckoning.**

 **Oh and Happy Pancake Day if you celebrate it!**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **09/02/2016**


	13. Chapter 12: Just Reckoning

**Thanks to: Readergirl99, HolidayBoredom, Steinbock, Laura-Wilkie and Shadow914 for the reviews despite the fact it was a fairly boring chapter. Thank-you for reading it and reviewing anyway :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: This is it! The title chapter! The showdown! The one you've all been waiting for!... Or is it? Maybe it's another filler chapter and I'm just... Ah I'm just joshing you... get on and read it already ;)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER TWELVE – Just Reckoning**

 _ **The act of fair retribution in the avenging of past misdeeds**_

 **Eddie O'Connell's 'Fighting Talk' Gym - New Year's Eve**

The large man rolled his shoulders in the badly-fitting fight-vest. In truth, it would be easier to warm up if he just ripped the thing off, but he was going for understated efficiency and leaving the show-boating to the other fighter, who was bouncing around the cage as though the balls of his feet were made of rubber.

"Cage fought before, have ye, pal?" he asked, all leery-eyed and full of himself.

The man gave something of a cross between a shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders as a response. The element of surprise was hardly an advantage he needed, but it would be the icing on the cake to see Paul's face when he thought he was taking on a rookie, only to find he'd picked a fight with a professional.

"Ah – unlucky," Paul said with a wide, taunting grin. "Because I ain't going easy on ya just because you're green."

Mick Kendrew's smile was an inward one. He'd let this Paul guy get a few shots in first to get his confidence. Then he'd show his true colours. This fight was a favour for someone he held in high regard, after all. And he wasn't going to skimp out on the payment. From what he'd been told about this bastard, he deserved everything he had coming to him. Little Dom Butler was a good lad - the best, even. He certainly wasn't opposed to taking out any threat to the lad's progress in becoming the greatest Blue Diamond the world had never seen.

"I wouldn't wager on me being as green as I look," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"Was that an offer?" Paul spat, eyes gleaming greedily.

"Sure," the larger man said with a shrug. "How much you got on you?"

"How much have I…?" Paul laughed theatrically at him. "I practically _own_ the place, mate."

Mick bared his teeth in a grin. "I'll bet you everything you've won tonight, for a start."

"You got the cash on you for that?" Paul snorted scornfully.

"I could get it together," Kendrew said calmly. "How much?"

"Ten grand," Paul told him arrogantly. "Give or take."

"Alright," his opponent shrugged, certain he knew a man who would foot the bill if by some terrible miracle he messed this up and lost. "Place it."

Paul's eyes widened, but he was as gluttonous as he was conceited and he clicked his fingers at Eddie, cueing him to come up to the cage fencing.

"Jumbo here wants to place a bet," he said, over the raucous crowd. "Everything I won tonight. I win, he doubles it."

He didn't even mention the alternative. The chances of him losing were, to him, not high enough to warrant his breath.

"You sure, boss?" Eddie said quietly, with a shifty glance at his friend's opponent.

" _Am I_ … Eddie are you fucking me about?" Paul said in disgusted disbelief. "Place the damn bet, would you? Am I fucking sure? I'll give you fucking _sure_ …"

Eddie scurried away, unwilling to dig himself any deeper into a hole tonight, and sent one of his runners to place the hastily drawn up bet along with the final wagers of the crowd before the fight started. When he was given the thumbs up, he raised the microphone to his mouth once more, wiped the sweat off his upper lip, and began his spiel for the last fight of the evening.

" _Alllriiight_!" he boomed over the tannoy, all false-bravado returning to him in an instant. "Tonight, our last fight - in the blue corner, we have one Mister Mick K-K- _Kendrewww!_ Pitted against, in the red corner, an ex-champion of our very own ring, _The Raging Bull_ , Mister _Paa-uul_ Grant!"

There was a lot more cheering for Paul, although whether this was only because people were scared to cheer for the stranger in case Paul thought they weren't showing him enough support, nobody knew.

The ref brought them together to shake hands. Grant predictably attempted to crush his opponent's fingers. Kendrew stared at him emotionlessly and returned the pressure; but did not exceed it. He was considerably bigger than Paul. No need for the man to realise _just_ how much stronger he was. _Yet_.

"Alright boys," said the ref. "Shirts off and let's have a good, clean fight."

Paul pulled his over his head with routine ease, parading against the fence-line as he threw it over the edge of the cage. Although what _exactly_ he thought he was parading, Mick wasn't sure. The man was past his prime and although, arguably, so was he; Mick liked to think he'd aged better. Beneath the flimsy, florescent t-shirt, decades of hard work and equally as hard times had chiselled his body into a solid mass of power and strength. In contrast, Paul's perhaps once-defined abs had melted behind a wall of solid blubber, printed with a few, frankly garish, tattoos in various faded colours. Most of the strength was still there; it just had to lug around a couple more extra kilos of useless weight than it once had. The giant tugged the too-small shirt off and rolled his shoulders back again, freely now, his back muscles rippling under his battle-scarred skin. He cracked his neck from side to side as was his usual routine before starting a spar. Some joker in the mostly-male crowd wolf-whistled, but was quickly drowned out by an onslaught of homophobic insults.

And then, as they squared up and the ref raised his hands, a hush fell over the crowd.

"Alright," the ref said. "On my mark."

There was a bead of sweat on his forehead, Kendrew noticed. The man was nervous. Perhaps he was right to be. Whichever way this went, the result was likely to be messy.

"Ready…"

Paul drew up his hands into a defensive position. His opponent copied him, making it look as though he had no idea what he should be doing.

"Set…"

The fighters bent their knees, lowering their centre of gravity. He couldn't force himself _not_ to do that. Not after the decades of training he'd undergone. Not even as a ploy.

"Aaand… _Fight_!"

Paul was on the move before the word had ended and Mick had to hand it to him, the man had probably been pretty good… a few years ago. As it was, he would have been nowhere near fast enough to land a punch on Mick's jaw had the larger man not stood there and let him.

The crowd ' _ooohed'_ , but he rolled with the punch, returning one – albeit lightly – to the ribs of his opponent as he ducked back. Grant brushed the punch off – bouncing on his feet, pumped by the thrill of the fight – and fired straight back in with another jab. Mick knew that at some point he was going to run out of steam, but for the whole first round he let the smaller man get punches in, only trying hard enough to keep the score fairly even.

He had time yet.

* * *

The fight was in full swing by the time Billy elbowed his way to his post, Dom following in the short gap that was left behind him in the throng of people. From here, he could get a fairly clear view of the ring, but the fighters were currently locked in a sparring rally on the other side of the cage, Paul's broad, hairy back blocking his view of the other fighter.

Dom craned his neck interestedly, but he resigned himself to the fact he wouldn't get a better look at the larger man until the round was over.

The ref blew his whistle, the pair splitting off. Paul was blowing too. Great pants of hot air and spittle spraying from his large lips. But they were still twisted into a sneer as he waved water away when offered.

Dom sunk low in his seat and ducked his head as Paul strode up and down their side of the cage, whipping up the crowd into a frenzy. He didn't quite know why, but he forfeited his chance to check out the physical credentials of the man's opponent in favour of ensuring he didn't get noticed.

"Those softies amongst you who thought it was harsh earlier that Flex wasn't given a drink at the end of round one in his fights will do well to notice Paul hasn't taken any on-board either," Eddie noted. Obviously he'd heard some earlier whispering he thought it best to knock it on the head now. "He knows what he's doing. Not sure about Mick there, but it's looking an even fight so far."

"Who's the other guy?" Dom asked Billy. If he couldn't look, he could at least listen. Brickie hadn't been much use, but perhaps Billy had heard something.

"Dunno. Some guy called Mick," the medic shrugged. "Eddie gave him some kit so I asked him if he'd said owt. He didn't know much but Paddy said the guy said he was here as a favour for a mate of his. Dunno _what_ favour exactly, but he seemed pretty pleased to be picked, to be fair. I ain't seen him before, though. Big feller like that you'd think I'd remember if I had, anyway."

Paul bounded past, all sweat and bravado and Dom risked a squint across to the far corner, the lights were too glaring to make much more out than the fact the man was indeed pretty giant. And he knew giants. He lived with them. Dom decided to watch how Paul reacted to a larger opponent. Not for tips to use _now_ , but pre-emptively for the future. He knew in his heart, with great gratitude to his genes, that one day he would be bigger than Paul. Making sure he knew all the man's dirty tricks against larger fighters before he reached that stage would be useful to him, and this would likely be the only chance he would ever get to learn second-hand.

The ref called them together again, restarting the fight.

The boxing started up again, but it was clear Paul was bored of parrying. He dodged a weak kick from the other man and went for a knee-kick himself.

Dom shielded his eyes, watching as… He dropped his head in disappointment. The larger man stumbled and fell like a tree whilst avoiding what would probably have been a devastating kneecapping. But it hadn't even made contact. He wasn't going to get many tips off a guy who couldn't fight well. The blue-corner fighter rose to his knees and Paul crowed, diving onto his downed foe and wrapping an arm quickly around the man's throat, pulling backwards and upwards. Dom swallowed and looked at the floor, suddenly very interested in the chewing-gum ingrained into the fuzzy carpet. He didn't need to see that move from another point of view.

* * *

Grant's meaty arm was holding him in a choke-hold and for perhaps half a second, Mick Kendrew thought he might just have made a mistake giving the man this much of an advantage...

Then he remembered who he was and that the piece of shit hanging around his neck was making a very important someone's life hell. He twisted sideways until suddenly Paul's jawbone was pressed up hard against his opponent's shoulder, locked there by his own doing. But still, the smaller cage-fighter's face was a mask of determination and triumph. This guy may be big, but he had nothing on his experience and prowess in the ring...

And then he realised that, amongst the chiselled contours of weather-worn skin wrapped over the other man's large deltoid muscle, there was a rhombus patch of colour the same as that of the sky in the short moments between day and night; cobalt, zircon and sapphire all at once…

Of course Paul's brain didn't have the vocabulary to decipher the colour palate in such detail, and so he merely registered that the colour was blue and the shape was diamond…

And that rang a bell and hit a nerve all at once. Theresa had never quite been transparent about it, but he knew there was something about a tattoo just like this one...

The other fighter almost heard the _'clang'_ himself as the penny dropped.

"It's you…" he spluttered. " _You're_ … You sly fuck! You planned this!"

"That's right," the giant growled through red teeth, his bust lip sliding back to reveal a wolfish smile, knowing for sure now that his opponent had realised _exactly_ who he was fighting with. "Now say _uncle_."

And then he reared up, breaking the choke hold as easily as tearing a paper-chain, and set about completely demolishing the fighting reputation of one Paul Grant.

* * *

"S _hh_ -it _me_."

Billy's blunt comment made Dom look up again just in time to see Paul be bodily flipped - 180 degrees in mid-air around a horizontal axis, no less - and land heavily, face down on the canvas. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, trying to stand. But the other man – Mick? Mike? It didn't matter – seemed suddenly supercharged, as though someone had flicked a switch and he had begun to fight for real. He stepped down on the back of one of his rival's calf, grabbing the other leg and pulling on it. Paul's hands scrabbled on the floor of the cage and he kicked furiously as he was helplessly - _embarrassingly_ \- dragged backwards. The larger man leapt back, letting him have his leg and stand, but only for a second before he stepped forward again, catching the roundhouse Paul threw at him in one hand and trading it for a kick. It was a high kick, catching Paul heavily under the armpit, making his eyes bug with the effort of not bellowing in pain. After that, it was easy enough for the bigger man to step forward onto his foot, pinning it firmly beneath his own. Paul tried to pull free, but fell once more, as the man calling himself 'Mister Kendrew' delivered a strong one-handed shove to the chest, throwing Paul's own arm against him and adding insult to injury as he chinned himself with his own forearm, biting his tongue.

"Well ain't that a turn-up for the books?" Billy said lowly, as Paul thudded coccyx-first onto the canvas.

"Did you _see_ that move!" another familiar voice shouted excitedly. "That was… well that was bloody _brilliant_! Such confidence! Such _skill_! Get me the name of that man – get me his details _immediately_!"

Dom look from one to the other. 'The other', being Mr Devlin, who had somehow managed to push himself to the front of the crowd alongside the medical box. Well there went his theory about the guy being Vinco's trainer...

"Yeah. Nice one, Pops," Vince said, eyeing Dom for a reaction.

If he had seen the expression on the other boy's face, Dom might have realised what his fellow fighter had noticed.

But Dom wasn't looking at him anymore. His eyes were fixed on the man who had stepped back to watch - almost _indifferently_ \- as Paul scrabbled to his feet. He was big. _Enormous_ , even. Muscled. Stoic. He was…

He knew now. He was stunned he hadn't realised before. The fight had mainly been over the other side of the ring, for sure, the fighters mostly with their backs to the medic box when Paul wasn't busy parading across his line of sight. That, coupled with the unknown man's instantly recognisable fighting style being completely disguised for that first round... and not only that, but it was so unexpected he hadn't considered that...

Dom stopped making excuses. It didn't matter now; how he had inexplicably missed it before.

Even silhouetted against the glare of the lights, he should recognise that man anywhere.

And he did.

" _Uncle_ …" he breathed, not quite knowing how to feel about this latest development.

"You what?" Billy asked loudly, leaning in to hear him over the clamour of the crowd. "You say something, kid? I can't hear you over this damn racket! You'd think this lot had never seen a good fight before, eh!"

Dom sat forward on the edge his chair, all demeanour of oppression vanquished like darkness at the break of dawn. It showed in his eyes; reflecting the glow of the metaphorical sunrise, _basking_ in it. It would take an idiot not to guess how much the kid was enjoying this. And Billy Evans was not an idiot.

"Erm… _Encore_. I said 'encore'," the boy shouted back. "I want to see how this goes!"

"I won't tell Paul that, eh?" he grinned.

* * *

The Major - for of course it was he - was only _slightly_ concerned when Paul appeared to get a second wind. After all, it was just the adrenalin flooding the man's system as the threat of losing became overly imposing. For he was going to. That much was clear now. He was swinging punches left and right, but few were connecting with any considerable force. The Major was glancing them off his palms as though he was merely training with the man as he inched closer towards him, backing him into a corner. Time to end it before the final bell. Letting his guard 'drop' for a second, he waited for Paul to take the bait. The man did. Somewhat unexpectedly as instead of some professional and thought-out move The Major had been expecting, Paul leapt upwards like a madman, hands clawing for his opponent's throat. The Major brought his knee up swiftly in response and it impacted it heavily with the centre of Paul's fat-padded ribcage. Right in the solar plexus. _That_ hurt. Paul dropped to the floor, winded at the very least. The Major stepped over and hauled him up by his shoulders, rendering his arms useless by digging his thumbs deeply into the inner groove of the ball-and-socket joint, threatening to dislocate both at once. Paul kicked and struggled, but it was futile against the giant. The Major raised him to eye-level.

"You recognise me then, Grant?" he asked in a voice too quiet for even the ref to hear. "I was beginning to think you'd never catch on - you don't seem to be all that bright, if you don't mind me saying."

Eddie was shouting over the tannoy. Probably something about how Paul was about to twist this to his advantage. No-one was listening. Every eye in the room was on the scene unfolding in the cage.

Paul's face was a grimaced snarl, but suddenly he looked into the dark blue eyes that were unsettlingly familiar. He _knew_ those eyes. He was used to seeing them looking _up_ at him, but he knew them all the same. And in that moment, any last lingering doubt about the identity of this man vanished into the ether.

"Of course I do, you bastard!" he spat. "I take it that little shit's been telling tales about…"

"No, no - if you're under the impression I was coerced here, you're mistaken," The Major said calmly, giving him a shake to at least make it _look_ like the hold was difficult to maintain. "And as for my nephew, he has no idea I'm here and would probably tell me quite abruptly where to go if he did."

Paul's eyes narrowed, looking for the lie.

He didn't find one.

"Well. This has been fun, Paul," The Major said, squeezing a little tighter until Paul's collarbones seemed to squeak under the pressure. Grant gritted his teeth against the pain and made another ill-advised attempt at a dirty kick. The Major arched his hips out of the way and slammed his captive's back against the cage mesh, rattling the whole structure. "We should do it again some time."

Paul was spitting obscenities at him now, kicking out brutally hard. The Major kept him held him out at arm's reach for the last few seconds. If it was an effort, it didn't show.

"And believe me, we _will_ be doing, if I find out you take your embarrassment at your pitiful performance out on _my_ boy," The Major warned, so fiercely that the man cringed involuntarily away from the growl of his voice. "And next time, let's just say your little friend on the mic over there won't be wittering away in the background. _Understood_?"

Paul didn't respond favourably, but The Major was done with his little monologue. He spun around and brought the man close again, taking the few kicks that came with it. They might have proved _highly_ distracting to another man, deadly even, but the giant merely tightened his thighs and abdominals so as to absorb the impacts as he held his rival forcibly still, memorising the hateful face of Paul Grant as he writhed and spat and struggled in his grip.

"I'll expect my winnings in the post, shall I?" he added as a parting shot, then threw his opponent horizontally across the cage with all of the considerably explosive power in his upper body.

Paul sailed backwards, hitting the floor heavily, his arms not fast enough to stop his head flying back, skull thudding into the canvas with a force that vibrated the cage-floor. His legs flew up comically and he flipped, coming to rest chin-down, arms bent backwards and under him. He lay still. The Major turned his back, checking the clock and shrugging at the ref who was stood somewhat in shock to one side.

Dom's mind was a turmoil of emotions. His uncle had just… He had just… He turned his eyes to Paul, lying sprawled on the floor… Only he _wasn't_. The man had lurched to his feet so suddenly that Dom did the same, leaping out of his chair and barely managing to keep from shouting a warning, instead signing a swift hand-signal for _'enemy behind you'_. The Major's eyes caught the movement and, almost imperceptibly in the glare from the lights, he winked, lip curling into a smirk.

 _He already knew,_ Dom realised. _He already knew what was coming_.

For then his uncle turned, almost lazily, drawing back his powerful right fist and letting Paul's lurching leap towards him provide most of the force of the impact as he gave the man an uppercut that Dom could see was clearly pulled. If it hadn't have been, Paul would have been dead before he hit the floor. Which he did. Again. Spectacularly. Only this time, there was _definitely_ no chance of him springing back up.

The crowd were amazingly silent for such a knockout blow.

" _Dayum_ …" Billy breathed. "That was _some_ hit."

"Pulled it," said Dom, distractedly.

"He what?"

"He _pulled_ it," he said with certainty, trying to see a way through the crowd as the spell broke and they began to roar their verdict - approval or otherwise - swarming the cage fencing in their fervour. Despite his size, Dom knew all too well how good his uncle was at disappearing into them.

"You sure, kid?" said the medic, uncertainly.

"You can tell by the way he held his elbow," the boy answered curtly, frustrated at the need to explain himself as he demonstrated the arm position with his own. "See? _This_ – full power. _This_ – nada. There was hardly any clout in that hit."

"Well, you're the expert at getting and giving out clobbers, kid. I'm just the one to patch them up," Billy said, picking up his medic-bag. "But I've been doing this job a good few years now, and I ain't never seen a hit do that to a person in a cage fight. Scoot out the way - I best go see if Paul has any teeth left in his head..."

Dom moved to allow the medic to pass, uttering a final, disbelieving; " _Shh-it me_ …" as he went.

In the ring, The Major nudged Paul's hip with his foot, turning to the ref.

"Think he's probably out," he said with a shrug. "So do I win now or what?"

The ref gaped slightly and nodded, just once, reaching for his hand. The Major let his wrist be grabbed and held in the air, not even at head height for him. He may as well finish the show he started.

"Erm… we… ah, have our winner folks. Mister Mick Kendrew with a knock-out blow. Alright. Nothing to see here. Bets can be collected in the morning so... ah, go grab yourself a drink at the bar. Happy Hour until next year!" Eddie shouted over the tannoy, eager for the crowd to move off.

Billy opened the cage door and gave The Major a cursory, albeit impressed, nod of acknowledgement as he strode past him, dropping his bag on the floor and firstly checking Paul for a pulse before he even _began_ to contemplate the man's various injuries.

The Major pushed the door to the cage open and jogged down the steps to the changing rooms.

Dom rose out of his chair again rapidly. He had to see him. He _had_ to get to him before he inevitably disappeared.

"Hey – hey Flex – Dom, wait!" someone – _Vinco_ , he realised - called after him.

Dom ignored him, but was not surprised when someone grabbed his arm.

"Not now, Vince," he said shortly.

"Just one thing – that guy, the big guy. You know him?"

Dom wondered if it mattered if he told him or not.

"Yeah," he said hesitantly. "You could say that."

"I _knew_ it!" Vince grinned. "Your fighting style - not the first round, but the second after that big hit - his were the same and..."

It made Dom uncomfortable - as observant and knowledgeable about fighting as Vince Devlin was - that the other boy had noticed the similarities.

"He's your real trainer – am I right?" he took a punt.

Dom didn't answer and, thankfully, Vince didn't push it. For then Dom would have had to lie to him; and it wasn't often he found he didn't feel like doing that to someone. Especially not someone who had recently over-extended his elbow joint. _Especially_ not someone who he had even-more-recently knocked out.

He was on the move again before Vince could speak again, but the crowd was milling around, crushing and folding like a shoal of fish as they made their way to the bar or the exits, chattering excitedly about the fight.

"Paul's lost it, I reckon," said one of the regulars.

"Ah I dunno - he was doing well til the end."

"The end? He lost it in the middle, you mean!"

"Ah yeah, but give him credit - did you _see_ that hit at the end?!"

"Did I see it? Whaddya take me for? Aye I saw it - an' you know who he reminds me of, though?"

"Our kid the Dubby-boy wonder! You was gonna say it, right?"

"Damn right - hey there he is now! Flex - _Flex_!"

He pushed past them. Precious seconds were wasting. _Minutes_ , even. Far too long. His route to the changing room doors was blocked by a group of people eagerly waiting to see in what condition Paul was dragged off through the 'stage door'. It was no good. His uncle would be changed out of the ridiculous fight gear and gone into the night before he'd so much as reached backstage.

" _Shit_ ," he growled, changing tack.

He turned and sprung onto one of the tables in the seating area, his progress tracked by the tinkling of broken glass and shrieks and yells of alarm as he leapt from one to the next, across the top of the bar and onto the wood-topped half-wall that separated the seating area from toilets. Foot in front of foot, he ran quickly along it. Or at least he did until he misjudged the sharp right-angle and slipped. People parted in surprise as he fell to the grimy carpet with a thud, which was at least a positive side-effect of his unbalance. He shook his head to clear it and crawled forward, taking advantage of people's bemused reactions before he rose back to his feet and shoved past the distracted security man standing guard over the entrance to what Eddie proudly referred to as 'back-stage'.

He got all the way into the corridor before a runner made an ill-advised attempt to stop him.

"Hey – you can't be down here on your own…"

"Seriously?" he snapped, grabbing the man's shirt and shoving him bodily out of the way.

"Whoa – sorry Flex! Sorry man. Didn't realise it was you…"

Dom let go of him, angry with himself for losing his temper like that. That was _not_ how Ko would have him act. It wasn't how his _uncle_ would have him act, either.

 _His uncle…_

Where would he have gone?

The corridor was empty, so he shoved each dressing-room door as he passed them, giving the interiors a cursory glance. But they were empty of people. They'd all gone to watch the fight.

A door thudded in the distance.

 _The fire door!_ he realised. Of course - a prime bodyguard exit. Especially in a joint like this where opening one wasn't likely to trigger an alarm. Also, his uncle would have seen that door earlier and know where it lead...

He broke into a sprint, bursting out of the very door he had come into the gym through, what felt like _days_ ago now, out onto the alley into the ankle-deep grey sludge that passed for snow in the city...

The backstreet was empty.

"Uncle!" he shouted into the night, clinging onto the hope that the man would stop if he was even still within earshot. What he had done for him was, of course, unrepayable. But if he had left him here alone to face the music... Dom wasn't sure what he was going to do. As grateful as he was, his life was quite possibly about to get a whole lot more difficult when Paul eventually came round… _"Uncle!"_

"Jay-sus, boy," a voice drawled from very close by indeed and _just_ this side of supercilious. "I might be getting on a bit, but I'm not deaf yet."

Dom swung round – ashamed that he had burst through the door without a second's thought to the fact that there could be someone stood right next to it.

Luckily for him, the 'someone' was his uncle.

The smug grin the man was sporting nearly pushed Dom over the edge. He'd had a pretty stressful evening and all his uncle could do was laugh about it.

"What," he growled, clenching his fists. " _The_ _hell,_ did you think you were you doing?"

"Fighting," he said, infuriatingly jovial about the whole thing. "Rather well, if I do say so myself."

"I meant _what the hell were you doing going in there?!"_ Dom almost yelled at him. "Getting put into a fight draw and – fucking hell you rigged it, didn't you? The slip Brickie gave me - how did you...? You rigged the whole thing?"

He shook his head incredulously, realisation dawning.

"Obviously," The Major rumbled. "Catch on, lad. I know you're not as dense as the chumps in there, come on now."

"I'm the stupid one? _I'm_ the stupid one?" Dom said, repeating himself in his frustration. "What were you thinking?!"

The Major's smile faded slightly. "Of having a little fun. I thought you'd approve."

"Well I…" Dom stopped short of throwing his hands in the air. He growled instead. "Well I bloody-well _don't_!"

"Because?" The Major prompted, rotating one hand in a _'go on'_ gesture. He frowned, turning over his hand and inspecting the back of it with mild intrigue. "Spit it out, boy."

"Because _now_ the fucker will think I set you on him and… and well... it won't be good," Dom finished, somewhat lamely.

"Look," The Major sighed. "Before you can say it; I know you can fight your own battles. And as for backlash, all you have to do is let me know."

His nephew scowled back silently.

"And if you don't, I _will_ find out," The Major added firmly, locking eyes with the boy.

Dom let his fists unclench. There was nothing he could do but sulk about now, and that would be ungrateful at best.

"Fine. You could have been injured, then," Dom pointed out, not willing to drop the topic when for once his uncle was the one at fault. _Wasn't he?_

The Major looked at him as though he had also suggested he could have knocked the wing-mirror off the Bentley.

"Pa is gonna _kill_ you," Dom said, as his argument breaker.

It didn't work.

"Kill me? It was his idea," The Major snorted - most amused when his nephew's eyes widened in surprise. "And injured? Please. I've had better fights off the manor punchbags than that wet lettuce in there."

" _Pa_ put you up to this?" Dom asked. The notion seemed _bizarre_. Of course he knew his grandfather cared about him a great deal, but he was a man of protocol and sensibility. Letting his son loose on his grandson's abuser in a semi-legal cage match was neither of those things.

"Well, he suggested it and I felt like stretching my legs, so why not?"

"You did more than stretch your legs, Uncle," Dom pointed out. "I thought for a second there you were going to kill him."

"I was," The Major admitted amicably. "But then I thought, you know, bloody..."

"Paperwork forms," Dom finished the sentence.

"Exactly."

"What about your knuckle?"

"What about it?"

"You've cracked it, I'd guess," Dom diagnosed. He hadn't missed the man's earlier extended glance at his hand.

The Major scowled. "Observant little shit, aren't you?"

"I don't need to be when you did something as daft as hit a guy that hard in the jaw!" Dom argued. "' _Tools of manipulation_ ' versus ' _box to protect brain_ ' equals ' _bad idea_ ' - you taught me that yourself!"

"Pssht - worth it this time," his uncle rebuffed, waving the comment aside and managing not to wince as he did so literally with his injured hand.

Dom's face was best described as 'stern mother hen', which was quite frankly hilarious on the young teen. Not that his uncle would tell him that.

"Besides, did you _see_ the look on his face when I put him on his arse?" The Major smirked again.

"I did," Dom said, stubbornly taciturn, although he was tempted to ask ' _which time?_ '

"And?"

His uncle looked at him, eyes daring him to admit that, even if it was not what he had asked for, he was glad it had come to occur.

" _And_ it was brilliant, OK?" Dom confessed, barely refraining from rolling his eyes – partly because it was childish and partly because presently his eyebrow hurt when he made excessive facial expressions. "It was one of the best moments of my life."

"Just _one of_ , eh?" the man asked, sounding almost disappointed.

"Right after the time Charlie swallowed a stinkbug for a dare and that time you almost beat Gramps with _Krav Maga_ in a spar…" Dom said, imagining the scene. "And _then_ he whupped your ass with _Systema Spetsnaz_."

The Major barked a laugh, not knowing whether to be pleased or not that he featured in two of the top three 'best moments' of his nephew's life. Regardless, he was pretty sure the boy was making the chart up on the spot.

"And Kendrew - really? That's the one that means warrior, right?" Dom asked, finally realising where he knew the name from - it was one of his grandfather and uncle's very many aliases.

"Your point?" The Major asked candidly.

"Mister _Michael_ Kendrew?" Dom snorted. "Mister _'Patron Saint of Soldiers: Conqueror of Satan'_ Warrior? Could you have picked anything more melodramatic if you tried?"

The Major let out a low chuckle. "Rather fitting, don't you think? And someone's been listening to Artemis's religious education studies, I see. I didn't think etymology was your thing."

"It _isn't_ ," Dom informed him, still annoyed. "But Artemis made me look his up to prove it wasn't just for girls. Means 'hunter' or something."

"I know. He's told me. Several times."

"Yeah? Well then he tried to trick me into looking up mine. So I looked up, like, five random ones."

"Your name is very fitting," his uncle said. "I liked it the moment your mother told me what you were called."

"Yeah?" said Dom, for what else was one supposed to say when someone complimented their name? "Well it's only going to be fitting if I manage to survive to getting my Diamond."

A wailing siren hailed from the rough direction of the hospital. The older Butler gave a self-satisfied huff. _Job well done,_ it would seem. The younger pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a headache coming. It was almost funny; the way their roles seemed temporarily reversed. He was stood there, somewhere between impressed and exasperated. His uncle was still smirking, basking in the glow of his unanticipated accomplishment.

"Are you happy now?" Domovoi asked. "Can we go home? Because I sure as shit don't shine ain't staying with that prick tonight."

"After a detour," The Major said with a smile.

* * *

 **So there you go! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! If you did, it'd be pretty awesome if you'd let me know :)**

 **Some of you 'observant little shits' as The Major would say, are far too damn attentive and predictive and probably already guessed before you read this chapter that Mick was a certain somebody else. And 'Kendrew' was a alias the Butlers (Major and Dom) used in 'In the Path of Bullets' when they checked into a hotel. How many of you spotted that?**

 **Well, it's that time of year again. I have lambs to bottle feed 2-3 hours - and yes, that includes through the night. Two little tups (boys) so if you have any name suggestions fire away! Myles and Beckett, maybe? Enjoy your normal sleep schedules!**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **13/02/16**


	14. Chapter 13: Adventitious

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, Readergirl99, Write that wrong, Jolinnn, Steinbock, Forever Day and P.S. Sword for the reviews which made me think I probably managed it; it lived up to expectations. I'm happy :)**

 **And to: Forever Day for the follow.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: OK, so back on the slowdown. Also, this isn't likely to be up to my usual standard, because it hasn't really been read over. Thought you'd rather see it rough than not for a few more days haha**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Adventitious**

 _ **An unexpected happening occurring as a result of an external factor, rather than planning or design.**_

 **Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve**

The knock at the door was earlier than she had expected.

She didn't know whether to be pleased or worried. She was dressed to go out, as he had said he might be back before midnight. Not that she was looking forward to bringing in the New Year with a sour, cantankerous drunkard of a man. She hoped he'd won big at the arcade or something else which would put him in a good mood. He was never her Paul when he'd had a drink. She sighed, heading quickly to the door before he could either start trying to break it down or begin crooning one of his – and perhaps at some point her – favourite songs.

"Coming now!" she called, pulling on a pair of shoes in case he would immediately want her to follow him.

* * *

"Are you sure we should be doing this? I mean, she's not expecting us and…"

"Do it, boy. Before I use your thick skull as a door knocker."

Dom raised his fist and knocked gently.

"Well she won't hear that," The Major said, rolling his eyes and rattling another louder series of knocks on the door.

"Coming now!" – came the somewhat terse response.

"See? Jaysus Christ, boy. I didn't think I'd need to teach you how to knock a door…"

Dom did well not to tell him to shut up.

"Come here; your face is a state," The Major said, suddenly noticing that his nephew had a crust of blood above his cut eyebrow that had trickled down the side of one of his shade-too-sharp cheekbones.

"Seriously, Uncle?" Dom said, lurching back and swatting at him. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"Call it Christmas Spirit or some bullshit. And calm down. I'm not going to go all nanny and spit on you," The Major assured him – still seeming far too amused by all this. Instead of spitting on the sleeve of his jacket, he slid it along the parapet of the corridor and once it was soaked with half-melted snow, grabbed the boy by the collar before he could protest, scrubbing his forehead clean with gentle firmness.

"Oh come on," Dom growled, cuffing his hand away. "That's fecking _sore_."

"Oh don't be such a pansy. Stop whinging, boy. Gotta have you looking presentable or else she'll think I haven't been looking after you," The Major said with a smirk, slapping him on the back and making him face the door.

"Presentable?" Dom scoffed, swiftly distracting himself from the phrase his uncle had used, eerily familiar to that in his nightmare. "You don't look much better yourself!"

The Major shrugged. "I'm not her _son_. I don't _need_ to look presentable."

"She probably won't even want to see me…" Dom muttered.

"Don't be ridiculous," The Major snorted.

"But… but what if she was happy without…"

"Domovoi?"

"Yeah?" Dom asked, looking up at him.

In that moment, the quickly-becoming-rebellious teen looked nothing more than a boy.

"Give it a rest, lad," The Major said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

Behind the door, Theresa felt tears well in her eyes. She had watched the whole exchange through the spy-hole she'd been using to check what condition Paul had been in. Only it wasn't Paul. It was…

"Dom…" she whispered, pulling open the door, fumbling the handle with her eagerness to open it, repeating again, louder, as she finally managed. " _Dom!"_

In the narrow, grungy corridor, there was her son, flanked by his uncle. Same haircuts, same faces, same build... They looked like a double-act, the larger stood behind the smaller with his hand laid protectively on his shoulder.

"Hi Ma," her son said, almost nervously.

But he needn't have been.

She closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms all the way around him and squeezing him tightly, Dom doing the same back. She was not a short woman, yet soon he would tower above her. But for now at least, he was still her little boy. After a few seconds, Theresa looked up from her son's shoulder, thanking The Major silently with her gaze and beckoning him closer with one hand.

For a second, The Major wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around the pair of them and envelop them in a cocoon of safety. Of protection. But that wasn't his place. He took a small step back, shaking his head gently. She looked saddened, but hugged her son tightly once more, before finally holding him at arm's length.

"Why didn't you just come _back?_ " she asked, wiping her eyes with a sniff. "You _know_ what he gets like. He doesn't mean anything he says… what he… he _does_ , when he's drunk… And what did you do to your _face_?! Come here – does that hurt? That's fresh! What have you been doing?"

"Don't, Ma. Stop. It doesn't hurt at all. Stop it," Dom said, pushing her hands down carefully. "I didn't come here to talk about that. I came to ask if… if you wanted to come with us. Back to Fowl Manor. For New Year."

Theresa bit her lip. "But Paul…"

"He won't be a problem for tonight."

"What? What do you mean, Dom?"

"I… I saw him fighting someone."

"In the street? Has he been arrested? Do stop speaking in half-sentences, son – just _tell_ me."

"It was… in a cage match," Dom said, stopping short of saying exactly who with – a fact he hadn't agreed with his uncle, but which seemed prudent given their circumstances.

"But he's retired," Theresa frowned. "He promised. No more cage-fighting. Is that how you cut your head?!"

"Yeah," he admitted.

Theresa closed her eyes. "You were both cage-fighting."

It wasn't a question. It was a verbal realisation. She inhaled through her nose. She was annoyed.

"Not with eachother," Dom assured her hurriedly, as though that made the whole business acceptable.

"I… I don't understand why either of you were fighting in the first place!" – Clearly it did not.

"Ma… You know I sometimes… you know…" Dom started reluctantly.

Theresa's mouth tightened to a thin line. She did turn a blind eye to her son's extra-curricular activities. She was not stupid, after all. She was also in the medical profession. His every bump and scratch was highlighted to her trained eye. As his mother, every one pained her to see.

"Then why was Paul fighting? He promised me. He _promised_ …"

The last bit was almost to herself and Dom gave her a few seconds before he offered up an excuse.

"It was Eddie's idea. That raffle fight thing. Anyway, he came off worse. He's… erm… gone off in an ambulance."

"An ambulance?!"

"He'll be fine. I'm sure. Just got knocked out. He should be in overnight…"

"I should go see him… Damnit who's on shift?" she muttered to herself. "I could ring ahead and…"

"No Ma, please… Would you," he paused, licking his lips. "Would you come with us, instead?"

There was a pleading in his eyes; totally at odds with his upbringing.

Theresa bit her lip again. Paul would be fine, she was sure. But if he came home early and found her not there…

"I could bring you back in the morning. First thing. Before they even release Paul," The Major offered, although it made him grit his teeth to say her boyfriend's name without curling his lip.

There was a silence that The Major hated, for every second proved how much that piece of scum had such a hold over Theresa that she couldn't even chose to spend time with her son.

"Forget it. Doesn't matter. Happy New Year, Ma," Dom mumbled, turning and making for the stairs.

But The Major was a damn-site quicker than Paul.

"Dom…" he began in a low rumble, as he replaced his hand more heavily on the boy's shoulder.

Dom's hand flew up, lightning fast to strike it away. The Major caught it, holding it just a second longer than was entirely necessary.

"Wait," he said firmly. "Let her make a decision first."

The boy looked at the floor, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides. The Major hated that he'd scared him by grabbing him like that, but if he hadn't the young Butler would have been gone into the night. He looked at Theresa, beseeching her better judgement.

 _Please,_ he implored silently. _For your son._

"Yes. Wait for me, Dom," she said suddenly, taking one step back into the house, grabbing her coat from the hook by the door. "I am already dressed up, after all."

* * *

 ** _En route_ to Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

Dom had refused to take the front seat, but then so did his mother. So The Major was alone in the front as usual as the Bentley purred out of the city and onto the back-lanes.

"Did you like your present?"

A redundant question. His mother had worn the same perfume for as long as he could remember.

"Of course I did," she smiled. "Where did you find it?"

"Honestly?" Dom said with a slight smile. "I picked one up at the airport. Duty-free. Sorry."

His mother laughed, dealing him a gentle clip around the ear. "At least you know what I like."

And at least it was something he could get her that Paul wouldn't notice and get absurdly jealous about.

"Your uncle gave you yours, I presume?"

"Erm…" Dom said, looking towards his uncle for help.

"I opened it for you," The Major threw over his shoulder. "That fleece you haven't taken off for the past week. Might've forgotten to tell you that was your present."

"Oh, that's alright," Dom said, smiling. The fleece was his? That was great news. "Yes, Ma. It's great!"

"Oh My- _les_!" Theresa sighed, leaning over to clip him across the back of the head too.

"Sorry – I was preoccupied. Now put your seatbelt on."

"Like you're going to prang this thing, worryguts," Theresa said – _just like his brother_. "And you were _preoccupied_ doing what, exactly?"

There was a short silence where both Butlers decided to definitely _not_ tell Theresa what had happened early on the morning of Christmas Eve.

"You know. Body-guarding stuff," Myles said unconvincingly. Dom had to agree with his grandfather – his uncle could be a downright _terrible_ liar when he wasn't trying hard enough.

"Body-guarding _stuff_ indeed," Theresa drawled, disbelievingly. "And I'm Father Christmas."

"It's great anyway, Ma," Dom interrupted, saving his uncle. "I love it. Like Uncle says, I've hardly had it off."

Theresa raised an eyebrow, but she decided not to ask, instead putting her belt back on and settling back to watch the city fade away into the dark night.

The rest of the journey was spent exchanging stories and with Theresa asking how her son was getting on at 'school'. They rarely got to talk about The Academy. Paul didn't approve. She at least was proud when he told her he was coming top of almost every class. Except cookery. That lesson belonged to his friend Jake. And medicine, which was Wilhelm's forte. And Jean could probably beat him when it came to gymnastic ability. But no-one came close when it came to overall guarding. He was a Butler. By nature and nurture, he was bound to be the best.

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

They approached the gates slowly, The Major clicked a button on a remote that would alert the gatehouse they were there.

"Jaysus, I forgot how big this place is," Theresa said, watching the walls slide by as they approached the manor.

"It's only getting bigger too," The Major noted, pressing another button which would close the gates. It wasn't that he didn't trust automatic systems, but… he _just didn't quite trust_ automatic systems. "They've just finished the orangery. That's where they'll be holding the New Year's Celebrations, too."

"Excuse my heathen-ness, but what the hell is an _orangery_ when it's at home?" Theresa laughed.

"He means a conservatory, Ma," Dom said with a soft laugh.

"Then Jaysus, Myles – why didn't you just call it that?"

"Less of that, please," The Major grumbled. "It's 'Major' when we're around the Fowls."

"I know, I know – but I'll call you what I want in the confines of this car, Smylie," she teased.

Dom laughed and his uncle muttered something that sounded a lot like _'oh for feck's sake, bloody woman… what was I thinking?'_ and pulled them up alongside the garage.

"Right. Need I tell you to behave?"

"No sir," Dom rattled automatically.

"Not you, boy. I know _you'll_ behave yourself impeccably. I was talking to your mother."

"Why, Myles. I'm shocked," Theresa said, doing a fair impression of astonishment. "What _mischief_ exactly would I be getting myself into?"

The Major grunted like he had a great list he could begin reciting and Dom's interest was piqued.

"Yeah go on – like what?" he pried.

"Ah don't you listen to him, Dommy-boy. He's just worried I'm going to get _him_ into mischief."

"How would you manage that?"

"Well," his mother said, tapping her nose conspiratorially. "Let's just say I bring out the best in your uncle, that's all."

"Don't listen to her, Dom…"

"Did he never tell you about the time…"

" _Theresa_ …"

"What?" she said innocently. "I was only going to tell him about the chandelier incident."

"That was your fault," The Major said stoutly. "I claim no responsibility for that whatsoever; I was just the one who had to clear it up."

"What chandelier incident?" Dom asked curiously.

"Never you mind, boy," The Major grumbled, getting out of the car.

"Is he always this grumpy these days?" Theresa asked her son.

"Pretty much," Dom nodded, following his uncle and sliding off the seats.

"Must be the old age getting to him," Theresa stage-whispered conspiratorially, although she was of an age with the man and neither of them had yet reached forty.

"I said that," Dom agreed.

"Cheeky little shite. It's not too late to fit in ten score and a halfy before the year's out, you know," The Major warned, reaching a long arm towards him threateningly.

"Ooh 'eck, heads down, son," Theresa grinned, linking arms with Dom, who smiled unconsciously. "What is it your Pa says – _quit prattling about, boy!_ "

The Major rolled his eyes. " _Pratting_ , actually. And quite apt you should bring it up."

Theresa linked his arm too. "Oh come here, you miserable old git."

The Major did at least allow her to stay linked like that, safe between the both of them until they got up to the manor, where he gently pried her arm away and keyed the code into pad by the door. They stepped into a room which acted as a changing-room for the Butlers and The Major crossed over to a locker, pulling out a shirt, blazer and trousers, all Dom's size.

"Put this on," he said, throwing them over and pulling out a suit of his own. "And clean your face up a bit more."

Dom obeyed slowly. He was not too embarrassed to change in front of his mother, but her would rather she didn't see the state of his skin beyond what she already knew about.

"So, 'Resa. How's work?" The Major asked, drawing her attention.

"Oh you know. Same old, same old," she shrugged. "Lot of stabbings this week, actually. The Old Bill's had their work cut out. Christmas family dramas and whatnot. One guy came in with – I shit you not – a turkey carver stuck in his…"

"Hmm?" The Major feigned interest, buttoning his shirt over his bullet-proof vest.

"Why ask if you aren't interested?" she sighed.

"I am," he said honestly. "Just... _stabbings?_ Bit mundane, isn't it?"

She slapped him soundly on the vest and he actually _chuckled_.

"You're a heartless bastard Myles Butler, you know that?"

"It has been said," he admitted with a shrug of his giant shoulders as he began to fasten his cufflinks. The simple, silver squares looked tiny between his giant fingers and he fiddled with them for a moment.

"Oh come here; I'll do them for you," Theresa sighed, batting his hands away and slotting the small pieces of metal through his shirt cuffs herself. "Great murderous oaf that you are, can't even do your own bloody cufflinks…"

"May I point out I was doing them up just fine before you started _fussing_ at me," The Major pointed out, his face unimpressed.

"No, you may not. Shut up," she told him shortly, grabbing his other wrist.

He let her, smirking slightly. "Careful – they're explosive."

"What?" she frowned, pausing instantly. "Are you being serious?"

"That would be telling," he said neutrally.

"You tit!" she scowled, her mouth twisting into a disbelieving smile as he raised a revealing eyebrow, unable to keep up the façade in the face of her infuriated humour. "You know I believed you then?"

Dom watched them, a strange sadness filling his chest.

 _In a different life…_

Not only would he be _more_ than accepting, should his mother and uncle strike up a relationship, but given his parentage, he was all-but looking into a mirror of how his life could have been.

"You next, sonny-jim," his mother said, spinning around and bustling about her son. She fixed his cufflinks too and clicked her fingers, holding out her hand. "Tie, Myles. Come on - chop-chop."

The Major obediently handed her a bowtie and she threw it around her son's neck, pulling him towards her slightly. She paused, bringing her hands up to cup his face and gently smoothing the bruise that lay over his cheekbone with her thumb and then running one fore-finger very lightly over the steri-stripped cut above one of his eyes – his eyes which were dark and fathomless – so like his father's, so like _all_ of his paternal family. They filled with concern as she gave a sad smile.

"What is it, Ma? What's wrong?" he asked, looking down at her.

Looking down, for truly – as much as he assured her he was not all that tall yet – he was no longer of a height with her. He'd grown, she realised, wondering how on Earth she'd begun to miss him growing up already. Her hands fell back to the tie and she folded the silk over itself, straightening it.

"Nothing," she said. "Nothing, my darling. It's just… when did my little boy get so grown up, eh?"

"Aw Ma…" he mumbled, embarrassed, as he tugged his long arms into barely-long-enough jacket sleeves.

"Here, clean up your face," she said, wringing a clean cloth quickly in the small sink on the wall and handing it to him. "I can't really reach anymore."

"I'm not that tall yet…" he assured her once again, wiping what was left of the crusted blood from his brow, careful not to disturb the butterfly stitches.

"She's right though; you're shooting up like a weed," The Major said, eyeing him critically. "Just need to fill you out a bit. A trip to the tailors wouldn't go a miss, either. My treat."

"Can I get one like you and Pa?" Dom asked eagerly.

Myles rolled his eyes. "If you insist."

Dom beamed, fastening his jacket and smoothing it down.

"Stand next to eachother a minute," Theresa asked them, pulling them left and right in front of her.

The pair stood, one old, one younger, one taller, one shorter, but otherwise the same.

"There," she said, the proudness emanating from her. "Now I just wish I had a camera…"

Myles was silent, his eyes flicking to a locked safe on the wall.

"What?" she asked, noticing instantly. She did not spend years in a relationship with Dom's father without becoming hyper-aware of minute expressions. For example; if one wanted to glean unspoken affection from a Butler, tiny movements were essential to that realisation.

The Major exhaled air from his nose. "Go stand over there."

"Why?"

"Because your wish is my command," he said simply, unlocking the safe and taking something out.

Theresa beamed. "I don't even want to know why you have a camera in a changing-room, but that's perfect!"

"Surveillance shots. Now come on. Stand together. Closer – do I look like a fecking photographer? Stand together so I actually get you in the shot…"

He took the picture, Theresa with her arm around her son's waist, squeezing him closer, his arm thrown protectively around her shoulder. Her beaming, him smiling self-consciously. The Butler behind the camera smiled too.

"Give it here now – let me get one of you two," Theresa said, scurrying over.

"Ah-ah, no. Come on. I'll be in enough trouble as it is once Old Pa finds out I've been wasting film…"

"Pshht, it's not a _waste._ And that soppy old bastard would say the exact same thing!"

"Theresa…" he said again, exasperatedly.

"All together, then?" she said, placing the camera on the edge of the sink and fiddling with the settings.

"What are you doing? Do you even know how to work that thing?"

"Ah I'm sure it's simple enough…"

"If that falls off there…"

"Shit – the timer's started! Quickly!" she yelped, dragging both her ' _boys_ ' by the hands. "Sit down Myles or it'll behead you – on the bench, come on Dom – you too!"

They sat in a line on the bench, Theresa in the middle, her arms ending up crossed over as she refused to let go of either of their hands.

"Smile… _keep_ smiling…"

"Did you even press the button?"

"Yes I pressed the button!" she retorted, but by then she was starting to laugh.

Myles looked down at her, unable to keep from at least smirking, her laugh was so infectious. Dom looked across to him, also grinning.

And that of course was when the picture took, a white flash bouncing off the walls.

"Bollocks," The Major grumbled. "Now you'll want to take another one, am I right?"

"No – not at all," she said, still smiling. "It'll be perfect."

"You haven't even seen it…"

"It'll be _perfect_ ," she said again, with confidence. "Will you print it for me? And send it in the post?"

"Yes, yes I'll print it – now come on or we'll miss New Year pratting about down here," he said, retrieving the camera and storing it safely away, making a mental note to make sure that _he_ was the one who developed that particular film.

Theresa patted her hair, looking them both up and down. She brushed at invisible lint on their lapels and straightened their ties. Neither had the heart to tell her to ' _stop faffing'_.

"There," she said, content at last. "Now you both look presentable enough to accompany a lady."

"Ah yes, now if only we could find one," The Major said airily.

Theresa slapped him on the arm. "Shut up, you. You have to at least _pretend_ I'm a feckin' lady or I'll never fit in on the other side of that door."

"Would help if you stopped _feckin'_ swearing," he imitated with a wry smile, leaning back so that his face was out of reach in case she should attempt to hit him again.

"I think you're a lady, Ma," Dom said dutifully.

"Thank-you, sweetheart," she said, kissing him on the cheek and turning to his uncle. "See, Myles?"

"Ah ah," he frowned, pressing a two fingers to her mouth. " _Major_."

"Major _wanker_ ," she said, her voice muffled by his giant hand. She reached up and grabbed it before he could pull away.

"You seem exceptionally… _fiery_ this evening," he frowned. "Have you been drinking?"

"Not yet," she grinned, kissing his knuckles firmly and bouncing towards the door. "I'm just _happy_ , Myles. You should try it some time, really."

The Major caught his nephew smiling at the pair of them and exhaled noisily, rubbing the lipstick off his skin before it inevitably transferred to something expensive. His reputation, for example.

"Come on," he muttered. "Best keep up before she starts embarrassing us both with her stories."

Domovoi thought that was something he wouldn't actually mind for once, if it meant he got an insight to more of his uncle's less-serious side. But he followed all the same, ever obedient.

A corridor later they entered the grand hall, which had been transformed from its usual expanse of empty marble, into an array of richly-clothed tables - in the middle of which there was still a fairly large, empty space, occupied only by couples dancing and waiters skimming through the _mêlée_ _of_ suits and dresses, silver trays laden with glasses.

"I best find Butler; let him know we're back," The Major said quietly, one hand on Dom's shoulder. "You go have fun."

"Have… fun?" the boy frowned.

"Yes – you know. Enjoy yourself," he said with a roll of his eyes. "You may as well voluntarily, for I don't see your mother allowing you to do differently."

The youngest Butler grinned – it was becoming quite the habit this evening. He watched as his mother accepted a glass of champagne from the nearest waiter. She turned, beckoning him over.

"Go on. I've got work to do," The Major said, giving him a gentle shove. "Just remember it was _your_ idea to bring her when she makes you dance."

"No it wasn't, it was _your_ idea. And she won't make me d…" Dom began with a frown, but his uncle was gone, striding purposefully through the crowd, which parted like sheep before a wolf.

Needless to say, The Major had barely reached his father's side, in prime observing position on the first floor landing, when he saw their heir apparent hauled onto the dance floor by his determined mother, the previous hours melting away as he danced with her, laughing heartily.

"Where's Artemis?" he asked first.

"On your two – chatting to the brunette over by the champagne tower," the older bodyguard told him.

The Major glanced over, saw the boy wasn't in any immediate danger – despite the possibly-unstable tower of glass he was going to _have_ to believe his father had ensured was secure – and waited for the inevitable questioning.

Alexandr Butler did not ask whether his son had been successful in his mission. That much was clear by the presence of not only himself, but their protégée and his mother to boot.

Instead he asked the important question.

"Will I be needing to make any phonecalls, Major?" he asked cryptically, in a low rumble.

"Not this evening, sir," he answered.

His father nodded slowly. "Good."

"He wanted to bring his mother. I didn't have the heart to tell him no."

A white lie. He had indeed suggested going to see her, but it had been Dom who had imperceptibly perceived the further suggestion beyond the visit. He had been almost surprised when the boy had asked, but he supposed he shouldn't have been. The boy was very perspicacious, after all.

"Quite right," Xandr said, barely moving mouth as he spoke, lest he be lip-read by some of the other bodyguards dotted about the room. Not that any of them had their eyes on the Butler pair. Far too busy trying to _compete_ with them than observe and learn. _Amateurs_. "I'm pleased you brought them both home for the turn of the year."

"I'll take her back over first thing tomorrow, if you'll give me leave?"

"I don't see why not. I doubt anyone will be surfacing much sooner than midday."

The Major nodded too, daring even to be pleased with how things had turned out.

"Are they still holding the midnight festivities in that blasted glass box?" he asked next, changing the subject for now was not the time to discuss the full success of his plan.

"Change of plans; outside, if the weather holds."

The Major would have rolled his eyes, if it wasn't so unprofessional. That was potentially _worse_. At least the glass sheets were blast and bullet proof.

"And the handheld fireworks?" he asked, as a thought suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps they _were_ better off outside. One of those bouncing off the reinforced windows was an unpleasant thought to say the least.

"Still occurring, as far as Eugene is concerned."

"God damn his obsession with futuristic celebrations, eh? Can't you have a word with him or…"

"Son, if you believe I haven't tried, you'll believe anything," Butler sighed.

"And?"

"And what?"

"I believe that you tried. And I know what you're like," his son said knowingly. "So I'm pleased to hear you managed to convince him to…"

The younger man left the sentence hanging expectantly and Xandr, turned to him with a small twitch of his mouth. Of course he had. When one's charge was a Fowl, one didn't make it this far into a lifetime guarding post without picking up some serious negotiation skills.

"To replace the conflagration component with confetti."

The Major quirked an eyebrow. The Fowls were incredibly pig-headed. To convince one with their mind on something, was… "Impressive."

"I beg your pardon?" his father said, amused.

"You heard," The Major grumbled.

"Speaking of words with charges, best keep an eye on your own little blighter – he'll be copping off in the bushes before the night is out."

"He better well _not_ …" The Major growled, glaring across the room at Artemis, who was sidling ever closer to the pretty young lady he had his eye on.

Xandr chuckled. "It'll happen eventually, you know. You might as well face the fact you'll be stood outside a room like the world's largest third wheel, believe me."

Myles's silence was answer enough.

"Go sweep," his father ordered, mercifully releasing him. "There's only twenty minutes until Eugene starts handing out his faux-explosives willy-nilly so I could do to be sure there's nothing genuine about."

"Yessir," he answered curtly, descending the stairs without a backwards glance and melting into the crowds easily, despite his size.

Xandr threw his gaze across the hall, clocking his charge and Missus Fowl socialising with their friends, spotting Domovoi being spun around the dancefloor by Theresa, his eyes landing briefly on his youngest son as the man glided past his own charge with more than a moment's suspicious consideration to the teenager's current acquaintance.

 _Kids_ , he thought fondly.

* * *

 **So, there you are. Back at the manor.**

 **I really was chuffed to hear you all enjoyed the big fight scene :) If I had you all on snapchat you'd have got to see the big shit-eating grin I had on my face. As it is, you'll just have to take my word for it haha**

 **Well, I have lambs to feed before bed and then back up before bed again haha They've ended up... well, unofficially officially they're now called "Nick" and "Dave" after two of the farm workers haha But personally I like Cirrus and Nimbus and since they're living part-time in my kitchen and it's my sleep that's paying for their well-being... I may overrule people and just keep calling them scientific cloud classifications haha**

 **Sorry about the extra day's wait for a new chapter this time, I've been a tad busy :)**

 **I hope you're all looking forward to the rest of this. It's not quite wrapped up yet ;)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **17/02/16**


	15. Chapter 14: Fraternal

**Thanks to: Laura-Wilkie, HolidayBoredom, Steinbock, Kath, Readergirl99 and P.S. Sword for the reviews.  
Hearing that you guys seem to love Theresa and how this story is going means a lot, honestly. I know it's getting to be quite a long fic now, so I really appreciate the reviews. It's effort to read these long chapters and then review on top of that, I know that. So here's to you - you're appreciated :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: More gruff!fluff, Myles/Theresa stuff and even a mention of Granny Butler in this :)**

 **Onwards!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FOURTEEN – Fraternal**

 _ **Of or like a brother or brothers**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Eve**

"Come on – let's grab your uncle for midnight!"

"Ma, I really don't think…"

"Ah _come on_!"

Dom was towed forcibly after his mother as she ploughed through the crowd, across the carpeted mats which had been laid over the snow-covered grass and towards the towering figure of his uncle. When they reached him, he was on full _'body-guard mode'_ , eyes rolling across the crowds, paying particular attention to anyone with 'one of those blasted firework things'.

"So everyone – if I could have your attention! Everyone!" Eugene Fowl was shouting above the hubbub. "Ladies and gentlemen! Ah, Butler, could you…?"

" _QUIET_ ," Alexandr boomed over the heads of the excited mob.

A hush fell at his deep rumble.

"Ah, thank-you, old friend," Eugene said, before turning back to his audience and continuing; "Anyone with a firework, point them skyward, as such – _whoops!_ "

There was a short, sharp _bang_ and the air was filled with metallic streamers and glitter.

Dom jumped and did not miss that his uncle's hand twitched, as though ready to reach for his gun, and he gave a rather annoyed snort of air from his nose like a startled stallion.

The rest of the guests gasped and shrieked in alarm, but the Fowl patriarch's Butler merely looked resigned and handed his charge another false firework.

"Ah, thank-you once _again_ , Butler," said Eugene with a laugh, taking it a little more gingerly than the last. "As I was saying, everyone – !"

He began once again to give instruction on how to fire the hand-held confetti canons, although it as arguable that anyone would be wise to listen to him. When at last he had organised his 'troop', it was Vivienne Fowl who pointed at the large, illuminated clock, high up in the manor's East tower.

"It's nearly midnight!" she shouted shrilly.

Theresa grabbed her son's hand, but she did not grab The Major's; she knew the Butler family well enough to know when it was _not the time_ to take liberties.

But, as the crowd began to chant a countdown in earnest, The Major did allow himself a one-second glance at what he was blessed with for a family. His father, scanning the crowds, as unperturbed by his sixty-something-th New Year as he had been about the vast majority of his others. His nephew, caught in a rare moment of contemplation, if his expression was anything to go by. And then there was Theresa, of course…

For one moment it was perfect. The magic of New Year's Eve, perhaps.

"… NINE… EIGHT…"

Eugene was fiddling with his false firework again. It was The Major's first warning that something was wrong because when his gaze crossed back across to his employer's bodyguard, the man did not have his eyes fixed on his antics, but was still scanning the area. Something he had tasked _him_ , The Major, with doing. His father wouldn't change his orders without letting him know. Tonight he was to watch the crowd, his father was keeping tabs on the charges…

"… SEVEN… SIX…"

His eyes flashed towards Artemis, standing very close to that girl he had been trailing after all evening, otherwise safe. The Major frowned, trying to catch his father's eye. When he did, Alexandr said nothing for a moment, blinking freely, eyes rolling once more across the crowd. Myles followed his gaze. Something was wrong.

"… FIVE… FOUR…"

Then Alexandr raised his head ever so slightly, drawing back his shoulders, extending his neck minutely, his whole body tense; fixated. He looked _poised_. The moment before a predator pounces on something it has seen hiding in long grass. But he couldn't see it. Couldn't see where the threat lay. Yet he knew it was there. Somewhere. _Hidden_. His son noticed instantly and the effect was like a chain-reaction as the youngest of the Butlers felt his sixth sense ignite and looked around, suddenly alert to the invisible peril. His grandfather caught his eye, silently mouthing something – a single sentence.

"… THREE… TWO…"

"The music is never too slow for a tango," Dom murmured, repeating one of his grandfather's phrases – the one on his lips that moment.

"What?" his mother said, half-laughing.

He wanted to tell her what it meant. That 'Tango' was phonetic alphabet code for 'Target' which, in turn, translated to 'hostile' and that in this case the 'music' was the situation and the fact that even in the most calm, enjoyable and peaceful of times there could be an enemy unseen, just waiting to strike. For the music was _never_ too slow for a _tango_ …

"… ONE…"

"Something's about to happen," he said, condensing the explanation and squeezing her hand tightly for a moment before letting it go.

And then it did.

There was a flurry of movement that stood out amongst the rest of the arms lifting to the skies to those with trained eyes. The movement of somebody drawing a weapon. The scene seemed to freeze, the guests moving sluggishly in the shimmering lights reflected from the confetti as it soared into the air with a multitude of pops and bangs…

" _Mike_ – Tango, _Bravo_ – Charlie," Alexandr Butler shouted over the whoops and shouts welcoming in the New Year.

 _Mike – Tango_ , was 'Myles – Target', that much was clear. But Myles had one moment to think his father had made a mistake in his orders – _Beckett – Charges_? Beckett cover the charges? Was the man going mad? Beckett had been _gone_ for over a decade– and even before that he had not been an active member of their team for some time. Unless… unless his father had merely been reiterating that he himself, _Butler_ , would take the charges?

But Myles was on the move with no more time for contemplations before he'd figured it out, heading for the only person not cheering. The only person reaching into their jacket to…

Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

Time ceased to move slowly; everything happening lightning fast.

" _GET DOWN!"_

Alexandr grabbed Eugene and Vivienne Fowl, spinning them to one side, shielding them with his bulk whilst his son went for their would-be-killer.

For a moment Theresa had no idea what was going on, but what she _did_ know was that her son was gone from her side, sprinting the short distance to where Artemis was stood very close to the girl he had been talking to earlier.

And that someone else was after him.

The shooter, seeing his primary target was a lost cause, spun one hundred and eighty degrees and fired one shot in the direction of his secondary target.

Dom barrelled into the young couple, knocking them to the ground, hearing the crack of the gunshot, waiting for the bullet to whizz overhead – or worse, to feel the impact of it hammering into his unprotected body… But it never came. Instead there was a shout, a thud, a scream and then;

"Give me that!"

The bullet hit The Major square in the chest and he rolled on landing, baring his teeth, ready to begin another defensive assault. But he needn't have bothered, for the shooter was suddenly compromised by a _most_ unlikely adversary.

"Take that, bastard!" yelled Theresa Brady, offloading her recently acquired confetti canon at the hostile. At such close range, it was just as potentially dangerous as the Butlers had ' _paranoidly'_ been concerned about earlier. "I'll teach you to shoot at _my_ son!"

The attacker fell backwards, covering his face as Theresa hefted the used solid tube and clattered him across the head with it. This was just enough time for The Major to assist him in his descent. He brushed Theresa aside and pinned the assailant under all of his considerable 130 kilograms of solid muscle.

"Happy New Year to you too," he grunted, striking the gun from the man's hand before he could re-orientate.

Theresa took one moment to look for her son, saw that he was helping up Artemis, who looked _most_ affronted at his unexpected dive into the flowerbed, and then she was on her knees next to his uncle, grabbing him frantically.

"Myl… Major – are you ok? Did the vest hold? Are you shot? Did it hold? _Talk to me_!"

Her face was awash with concern - panic, even. She was _worried_ for him.

It was almost... _nice_ , The Major thought.

"It held. Mostly," he said, placating her with a grimace, before flipping his hostage over and kneeling forcibly on his back.

He pulled two thin strips of plastic from his jacket pocket and pulled them tight around the man's wrists. He was conscious and struggling, but he didn't struggle very hard, for the younger of the Fowl's Blue Diamonds soon had him rendered entirely helpless with a painfully forceful pinch to the nerve cluster in the back of his neck.

"You make another move I don't like and you don't get to feel your legs for the rest of your life, how's that sound?" he growled. The man stopped struggling.

Alexandr, having first made sure The Fowls were under the protection of the rest of the manor's security team, appeared before Theresa could press his son further as to the extent of the injury he must surely have sustained taking a bullet at such close quarters.

"Cellar, if you would, Major," he said. "Take your time. Check yourself for leaks. Every other amateur in the grounds will be on high alert now and between them and young Junior here, I suppose they'll do."

He was right, for at the commotion every bodyguard on the grounds had instantly – albeit tardily – returned to their charges, rattling off commands to eachother and shepherding the crowd indoors.

"Yessir," Myles nodded, getting to his feet and brushing down the knees of his suit. If his chest niggled at him when he lifted the attempted assassin by the zip-tie handcuffs he had trussed him up with and propelled him forward, he didn't show it.

"Theresa, you're a nurse, aren't you?" Xandr asked her.

She nodded, now the adrenaline rush was over, she was suddenly a little shell-shocked by what she had just witnessed – _Butlers in action_.

"Go with him. He has a rather foolish habit of undervaluing the seriousness of his wounds."

"But D…"

"I'll keep an eye on _your_ son," he interrupted before she could utter his name. "If you keep an eye on _mine_ , agreed?"

She nodded, somewhat reluctantly, but with one last glance over her shoulder, she followed The Major as he unceremoniously dragged his prisoner towards a back entrance of the manor.

"Boy – with me." – She heard the senior bodyguard call, her son obeying his grandfather instantly, just as he had before. The thought chilled her somewhat – not just that the command had been spoken tersely and as though the man had known the boy would be immediately obedient, as though he was a well-trained dog – but that Domovoi had put himself in danger on self-same orders minutes earlier. _In direct line of fire_. With no regard to the consequences, or at least not those to himself. She had almost come to terms with that being a predominant feature in his choice of future career, but he was _thirteen_ , for heaven's sake. Barely more than a child…

"Lock the door behind you, would you?" The Major asked as they entered the manor by a smaller, side entrance. "I don't want anyone snooping around looking for this guy."

She did as she was asked, closing the door on the cold night and shutting out most of the noise from the spooked crowd.

"Not that they'll find him," The Major added ominously.

The guy at least had the presence of mind to _look_ as though he had just realised he had made the biggest mistake of his life as he was dragged down a corridor and a set of stairs before the giant bodyguard keyed another code into a metal door and shouldered it open. A light flickered on automatically and Theresa could see that inside, with its back to the door, there was a chair bolted to the floor, set back from a table. Opposite, two more - loose - chairs waited for their occupants.

"Wait here a sec," The Major said to her, gesturing at the door.

She - absurdly - paused for a moment, as though worried about leaving him alone with the assassin.

The man twisted his hands, trying to slip the cuffs. The Major twisted back and that quite swiftly stopped.

"I won't be long," he assured her, the confidence rolling off him settling her nerves. There was no trace of the caring, emotionally-awkward, giant she had come to know and love. This was the other side. The cold-hearted, stoic, trained professional. She suddenly realised that this was all most people ever saw.

"OK," she said, her voice betraying her somewhat, but she was far too intrigued not to put her foot just inside the door to stop it slamming shut behind the men. The captor of the two noticed, of course, but he said nothing. If she wanted to stand there and silently observe the proceedings, then that was her own doing. As it was, she couldn't quite see around the door without coming in anyway.

"Stand there. Don't move," The Major ordered his prisoner coolly, pulling a large knife from his boot. "Hold still."

He cut the cable ties with two short sawing motions and when the man made an ill-advised break for freedom he grabbed him by the back of the neck, squeezing tightly as a sharp reminder.

"Really?" he asked scornfully. "I am _not_ in the mood to be digging holes tonight, but I know certain young pup who'll do the job with a smile on his face. So if you catch my drift, you'll sit there – " – there was the sound of someone sitting down with a force she would wager was not voluntary – " – and not try anything else for the duration of your stay with us, Mister…"

He clicked his fingers, but there was no answer, and so he rifled momentarily in the man's jacket pockets, pulling out a wallet in a time-frame that would have shamed a thief and flicking a card out onto the desk. The assassin refused to look anywhere but the wall ahead of him.

"Clarke, is it? I doubt that's your real name. Tell me, Mister Clarke does it have an 'e' on the end it, your surname?" he flipped the card over on the desk so the owner's details were face-down on the metal. "Or not?"

The man swallowed and said nothing. The Major snorted derisively.

"Do you know what's even more annoying than an amateur fuck-up?" he asked, rhetorically. "An amateur fuck-up who thinks he's a professional. Take your clothes off."

Theresa thought about shutting the door.

"Off. Now," The Major growled.

There was some reluctant sounding rustling.

"Ah, I thought you weren't that happy to see me," the bodyguard said triumphantly. "Thigh-holster, really? My _mother_ wears a thigh-holster. Give me the damn gun before I make your hip match hers as well..."

Ten minutes later, The Major left the man secured to the chair wearing nothing but his underwear. His clothes and weaponry he had secured in the safe in a small, adjoining room.

When he returned, Theresa was still waiting outside. If he had been conducting any serious questioning, he would of course have made her leave the corridor. Or perhaps even the wing of the manor...

"Okidoki," he said, locking the door and flipping open a panel above the keypad. "Let's go see what's gone on upstairs."

" _Okidoki?"_ she mimicked. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

"What?" he asked, his face a mask of intrigued innocence - or at least so he thought.

"You're being distractingly off-character. Show me your chest," she reminded firmly.

He scowled.

"Stop pestering about my damn chest, woman."

"Shut up," she said sternly. "Let me take a look or help me I will..."

"If it was serious I would be dead by now," he reasoned. "And the fact I'm standing here is rather contrary to tha… _Theresa!_ "

He stopped speaking swiftly for she had pushed him quite resolutely backwards into the wall and was undoing the buttons of his shirt before he could begin to protest further.

"Your father asked me to take a look. And if that wasn't enough then I am doing anyway because... well," she said, taking a breath before giving her explanation. " _Against_ my better judgement, I actually do care about you, Myles."

She was glaring at him; serious and firey and stern and determined all at once. He swallowed.

"That's… erm…err..." he faltered, his thoughts stalling as he tried to recall the last person who had said that out-loud. He realised suddenly that he _couldn't_. He licked his lips; continued. "That's very... ah... nice of you to say. But my point still stands; thank-you, but I'm fine."

"Oh shut up," she snapped again. "I couldn't let you die anyway. Your Dom's favourite uncle, he would be very upset with me."

The Major frowned, thinking, and she used his distraction to unbutton the front of his shirt.

"I didn't think you had any brothers."

This was a general statement. As though he had not done a complete background check on her family and actually knew the middle name of her great aunt once removed off the top of his head. Mostly because it was the same as his charge's mother. But that didn't account for the fact he also clearly remembered she had an Uncle Albert on her father's side… But no, no brothers.

"I don't," she confirmed, as though she did not know that he knew her entire family tree and the occupation of her paternal grandfather.

"And isn't your sister a... you know, a lesbian?" he added, as though he had practically been invited to the woman's house where she had imparted the fact on him herself and not in fact picked up second-hand the information on a woman he had never met.

"Yes, she is," she replied, as though she'd mentioned it a few times and not just once in passing some time ago.

"Then by the process of elimination, that doesn't leave the boy with much choi… _ouch_. Do you mind?" he scowled, affronted.

"I thought you said it didn't hurt?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "It's definitely gone through the the vest."

"Yes thanks, I know. And I think you'll find I said 'I'm fine', actually," he grouched. "I didn't mention the level or lack of pain it was caus… can you stop that now, please?"

"I need better light. I think you've actually got a piece of bullet in your chest but I can't see because of your vest," she told him, slipping her hand into his shirt and feeling for the velcro fastening. "You're going to need to take it off."

"Fine. _Fine_. Just let me finish this and I'll let you take a look. But for God's sake stop ripping my shirt open down a dark corridor - you know how people talk as it is."

She paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"What?" he asked warily.

Theresa pulled herself onto her tip-toes, fingers intertwined in his unbuttoned shirt, drawing her face so close to his that her breath tickled, hot and humid on his face…

"I thought _you_ said you didn't _mind_?" she said, inhaling his quintessential aroma of gunmetal and hard work and just a little of sweat.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but to his credit, his gaze was steady on her eyes. He kept his breathing even. She smelt of her favourite perfume and shampoo and just a little of alcohol.

The moment passed and she laughed, relenting, releasing her grip and letting him turn back to the forgotten opened panel. He began pressing a few buttons he knew by heart. Just as she knew his.

"What are you doing?" she asked, interestedly, as though nothing had happened.

"Turning the heat down," he said, catching the connotation a moment too late and adding to clarify: "See if we can freeze this bugger into talking."

"Jaysus, Myles. That's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

"Nope," the bodyguard shrugged. "He just endangered the lives of the three of the people I care most in the world about. So no, I don't think so."

"Your fave three folks? The Fowls? Sweet," she said, not missing that that was probably the closest she was going to get to a declaration of devotion from the stoical man before her.

He grunted indifferently, attempting to reaffirm some of his ruthless reputation. "You know who I meant. And luckily for him, you're here. If not, I'd still be in there."

Theresa didn't need help grasping what that might mean and gave a slightly nervous laugh this time. Myles snapped the panel shut again with a sharp click.

"Alright," he said with an air of resignation – and as though he had not just alluded to a much darker character which resided not-so deeply inside himself. One which Theresa hoped never to truly see. "Where do you want me?"

She banished the thought of that side of him as best she could, for even though the man she had helped capture had indeed endangered the life of her son, she was also a nurse and her sense of humanity and compassion was too strong to allow her to dwell too long on thoughts of revenge and punishment.

"Well isn't _that_ a question?" she laughed instead – after all, after the comment about 'turning down the heat', that had been pretty much two innuendos in a row.

Myles rolled his eyes. "Really?"

"Alright, alright," she said, grinning at him. "I just need somewhere with good lighting."

"The wet room is probably the best," he said. "Lighting-wise and there's a first aid kit in there."

"Then lead on, my duck."

"It's 'MacDuff', not ' _duck'_ ," he frowned.

"I know that," she sighed.

"And actually," he continued as they walked. "It's a misquotation."

"Yeah? And how do you know that?"

"Act 5, Scene 8, Page 2 – Artemis studied Shakespeare at St Bart's," The Major shrugged. "You pick this shit up when your charge has to memorise sections of plays for exams and his favourite way of doing that is repeating it over and over to you."

"Wh… _why_ do you remember this shit?" she asked incredulously. "Haven't you got - you know - bodyguard-y stuff to remember?"

He quirked one side of his mouth, amused. "We're born with an internal hard-drive for that."

"Ah I see. Must be great being part cyborg," she drawled. "Go on then – the quote. What's wrong with it?"

"It should be ' _Lay_ on MacDuff' – and the meaning is completely different."

"Sounds it," she said, waggling her eyebrows.

" _Oh for f_ … nevermind."

She laughed at him and he paused, hand on the door, looking back at her with a strange, faraway look in his eyes that she didn't associate with _The Major_ ; only with _Myles_ – and even then only when he was completely at ease and free to let his mind wander.

"Go on," she dared. "Say it."

"Never being able to say anything without a smart-arsed comment. You remind me of my brother, you know?"

"I could say the same."

"Obviously," he said, looking away and playing the 'twins' card, as he always did should their similarities come up in conversation.

But it was _more_ than that. Even if they had been _fraternal_ twins – or even merely friends – and not, for all intents and purposes in visual terms at least, identical but for the wears of the world, the brothers were remarkably similar otherwise. Perhaps Beckett had been less reserved, more lewd, freer with his emotions, but still... Myles could be as such if he would let himself. Although as much as she teased him, she knew the boundaries. He wasn't looking for that kind of relationship and neither was she. Together they clung to eachother in the wake of Beckett's disappearance; bonded by the loss of such a big piece of their lives.

She smiled all the same, but she missed him. _A lot._

They stepped into the wet-room and he opened the nearest cupboard, pulling out a first aid kit.

"You know I can deal with this just fine myself," he said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook above one of the benches.

"I know. I'm just here to make sure you sort it now and not two hours later when inevitably you'll get some degree of lead poisoning."

"I'm sorry – _when_ exactly did I order a second mother?" he asked sarcastically, undoing his shirt and unceremoniously dumping it onto a bench. His bullet-proof vest followed. The shirt would be recycled as rags for cleaning weaponry, but the vests were more expensive. It'd need repairing, lest someone manage to shoot him in the exact nine millimetre diameter spot as this last homicidal idiot.

"Why, what happened to your first?" she asked, unexpectedly.

"What?"

He frowned. The question was unanticipated. She had never asked before and he was not used to talking about his family. _Careless talk costs lives_ , or so the saying went.

"You know. Your _real_ mother," she persevered. "I presume you do have one. Unless that bullshit you first spun to me a dozen years ago about the Butler family being genetically modified cyborgs is actually true after all. So… what's she like? Is she still with us, so to speak?"

"That's a strange question," he said, pulling the final layer of clothing between his skin and the tepid air of the room over his head and looking down at his chest.

"Why?"

He didn't answer, instead giving a quiet huff of diverted revelation.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Well, I think we can confirm that the bullet went all the way through the vest," he said, poking impartially at the silver circle embedded in his chest muscle.

Theresa sighed. Getting information out of a Butler was like getting water out of a brick. Sure, it may be a similar size and shape to a sponge, but it was actually an offensive weapon. Or the foundations of a refuge. Either or.

"Let me see," she said, giving up on her questioning for now in favour of a rare opportunity to give medical treatment to a Butler.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, as was her habit before inspecting a patient.

"Not much _to_ see," he admitted.

"That's probably because the majority of it is buried _in_ you," she told him. "Sit – I'll sort it."

"Theresa I am perfectly capable of…"

 _"Sit."_

He sighed, but she was as stubborn as him and he was the one stood there with a bullet lodged in his chest tissue.

He sat.

"Good boy."

It took her ten minutes, if that.

First, she pulled on a pair of latex, medical gloves and took the razor from the first aid box, dry-shaving a ten-centimetre by ten-centimetre square around the wound. He pulled a face, but said nothing.

"What?" she said, daring him to complain aloud. He was not an excessively hairy man by any stretch, but the dressing she would later apply would not stick properly without the bare skin for the adhesive to form a hold. "I apologise if you have a side job as a necklace model, but you'll just have to go the whole hog and shave your entire chest if you've got a problem with it – this needs to be sterile."

With the last few words she coated his newly-shaven skin with a swab of iodine and then, with the long-nosed medical pliers she found in the first aid box, she gripped what little of the bullet she could and paused.

"Ready?"

"Just do it," he said idly.

With one smooth motion, she tugged it free from where it was lodged. It gave up it's housing with a small, sucking _pop_ which was as strangely satisfying as it was disgusting. He didn't so much as blink and so she continued, cleaning the wound thoroughly with more iodine. Again he didn't wince, but she almost wished he would - wished he would show some small shred of human reaction to the discomfort below the layers of machine-like disassociation.

 _But then he wouldn't be a Butler,_ she thought, strapping a dressing over the small, circular incision that was left behind.

"There," she said, patting her handiwork smartly. "Good as new."

It didn't have the desired effect of him wincing and he rose silently, crossing the room and opening another cupboard. Inside there was yet more white shirts.

"Jaysus – do you have an endless supply of those or what?" she asked, removing the gloves and resisting the urge to snap them against his bare back.

"We go through a lot," he gave as reasoning.

"Must be a bugger to iron."

He let out a soft chuckle and pulled a plain white vest over his head, stretching it carefully over his fresh dressing so as not to dislodge it. "They don't tend to _need_ ironing. Blood's a nightmare to get out of whites."

"You need better washing powder, then."

"Spoken like a true bodyguard's wife."

The absence of her laugh was deafening.

"I never married him," she said, a little coolly.

"I know," he said simply, strapping a new bullet-proof vest on and slinging a white shirt over his shoulders, buttoning it with automatic speed.

He replaced the jacket he had been wearing earlier, thumbing the bullet hole just lower and to the side of the notch in his left lapel. Two reasons for a trip to the tailors, it would seem. Perhaps his father would pay for them – as a recompense for him throwing himself in front of a bullet that could have ended up in one of their charges. More likely he'd make The Major pay as a lesson for not reaching the attacker fast enough to prevent the shot in the first place.

"My mother," he said, out of the blue. "She used to say things like that. The washing-powder thing."

"Used to?" Theresa asked carefully. "So she passed away?"

"No, she's not dead. So she still _does_ , I guess," he said with a shrug. "When she's not saying things like _'Try this, boy. No, no – I'm fairly sure it's not a high enough concentration to kill someone of your body mass – don't be so ridiculous, boy – stop choking like that, it's only a bit of cyanide for heaven's sake!'_ "

"Why on Earth would she say something like that?" she asked, wondering if he was joking.

"She likes making poisons," he explained vaguely, not joking at all.

"I see," Theresa frowned as he began packing away, storing the first aid kit, dropping the damaged bullet-proof vest into a basket of 'Kit to Repair' and scanning the floor for anything he might have missed. "And she tests them on… you?"

"Well," The Major said as though their discussion – and indeed the occupation of his mother – was mundanely ordinary. "She used to test some of them on me and Beck. Not the deadly ones, of course. Just so she could work out the dosage to knock people out."

Theresa eyed him for the lie – for any small sign that he was wholeheartedly taking the mick. There wasn't one.

"You should meet her one day," he continued when she didn't pass comment, "You'd get on like a house of fire."

"I'll take your word for it," she said, chuckling at last in disbelief.

* * *

 **Well, I hope that wasn't too mushy and boring for you. I just kinda wanted to show the relationship between those two. It's hard for Theresa because she still isn't really over Beckett and she sees him in his brother but yet he's really not. And Myles... well, you know what it's like. Plus he is too loyal to his brother's memory. Well, hopefully I'll get round to telling you all the story one day. People letting me know they want to hear it would definitely be motivation for that :)**

 **I saw a great quote today - really made me think. Also very appropriate for the previous couple of chapters of this fic.**

 **"If you want to learn what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph."**

 **One for the think-tank, anyhoo.**

 **If you're still out there reading this, then thank-you :) I know it's slowed down a bit, but showing you the small things that really influence the big things is important to me. I have to remember you don't know this story like I do and so I'm concious of giving you as much detail as possible.**

 **So yeah... I hope you want to hear it :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	16. Chapter 15: Status Quo

**Thanks to: write that wrong, Readergirl99, Steinbock and HolidayBoredom who have been waiting nearly a week for this - thank-you for your prompt reviews, I doubly apologise for my tardiness to you four. And also thanks to P.S. Sword, whose review this evening reminded me it's been an entire working week since I gave you all a new chapter.**

 **So yeah, I apologise for what was a delay in updating in my terms. Probably not in any normal updating speed fics, but I know it was a while for this one in comparison to usual. Only excuse being suddenly hectic week where I selfishly chose a couple of hours sleep before the 1am lamb feed rather than stay awake until it editing and posting this. Tonight I've spent three and half hours trying to get one of the pet geese to come in off a lake. It would not. If it has been got by a fox in the morning I will be beyond pissed off...**

 **Anyhoo. Update. Here you are. I hope you like it.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: More Butler badassary, of course.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Status Quo**

 _ **(Change in / Maintaining) existing state of affairs, especially regarding social or political issues**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Morning**

"Where's my Mam?" Dom asked, almost jogging to keep up with his grandfather's long strides as they made a final check of the perimeter.

"She's seeing to your uncle."

"Is he alright? I saw his vest must have held, but then Tim…"

"Master Artemis," Xandr corrected chidingly.

"Uh yeah – sorry. _Master Artemis_ needed help getting up so I looked away and…"

"Your uncle is fine," his grandfather assured him. "And, thanks partly to your efforts, so are the Fowls."

"I dunno…" Dom shifted awkwardly under the weight of the approbation. "I think I could have done better. Ti... Master Artemis was pretty annoyed…"

Alexandr turned and looked at his grandson unblinkingly. His eyes roamed over the boy's face, taking in the superficial damage that cast shadows and new scars over the familiar face. The boy looked back, holding his gaze, although on the rare occasion his grandfather stared him down like this, he always felt as though the man was reading his thoughts – as though he was using his eyes as a window to his very soul.

"You did well, Domovoi," he said quietly after a few moments. "Good lad."

Suddenly it didn't quite matter as much that he hadn't been able to help his uncle with the _highly_ interesting business of 'booking in the prisoner', because the Fowl heir was safe, so was his family and his grandfather's praise was still ringing in his ears. He beamed, following as Xandr Butler lead the way to the grand hallway.

The Fowls and the rest of the guests had been ushered inside after the incident, although in actuality, many of them had never noticed what had _actually_ happened at all. That was the art of good bodyguarding, after all. Step in, clean up, move out. Minimal fuss.

Alexandr mentally ticked off the high-profile guests as they strode through the crowd. Eugene had procured a microphone and was using it to assure the ensemble of upper-class citizens that all was well and the 'little problem' had been dealt with. The protection teams were not so quick to believe him and Butler wished his charge wouldn't stand up on a stage like that so soon after an incident - _and_ when the perimeter had not yet been cleared to his standard and there was a veritable _herd_ of semi-trained security men between now and that happening.

"Watch Artemis until your uncle gets back. I need to give Harson and his team some orders," he said lowly, pushing his grandson gently in the direction of the Fowl boy, who was conversing with a man Alexandr recognised as Gordon Bent, some oil tycoon or other that Eugene was trying to strike a deal with. The brunette girl was with them. Perhaps Bent was her father. He couldn't quite recall all the relations between the evening's guests, but he made a note to check the list later.

"Yessir," Dom said, shaking the steadily-building fatigue from his limbs as he followed the request.

He was just thinking how much easier this job would be when he was taller and larger and people would take him seriously, when he saw Artemis follow the man and the girl who had been collateral in the flowerbed incident earlier into one of the rooms from the side of the hall. The music room, if he was not mistaken.

Wondering what on Earth the guest would want to see in there, for it was a strange time for Artemis to be showcasing his prowess as a piano player, Dom followed them, choosing – almost on a whim – to enter the adjoining room and eavesdrop before he no doubt got told to go mind his own business. Well, if the man hadn't gone _with_ the pair of teens, Domovoi had a fairly good idea of what Artemis might be up to, but as it was… He strode past the sofas in the lounge room and cracked open the connecting door silently.

"So, young Mister Fowl – "

" _Master_ , if you please," Artemis corrected. "My father is the man of the house, after all."

"Ah, but for how long?"

"Many years to come, I should hope. I am thus far most at ease with the current state of affairs, I can assure you."

"Of course, of course! But we all must age, after all. Grow up and all that."

"Quite," Artemis said, although it was clear he was straining to remain polite in the face of the frankly bizarre conversation the man was threading.

"Please - enlighten me as to the name of your lovely lady friend here," said the gentleman, his well-trimmed moustache giving the impression he had taken a drink from an inkwell and was yet to wipe his mouth.

"This is Angeline," Artemis said, with an almost _shy_ glance at his companion. "And I'm afraid you are being quite presumptuous. We met only this evening. To refer to her as my ' _lady friend_ ' is quite…"

"Do stop _mithering_ boy, it's just a phrase!" the man chuckled.

The girl didn't seem to mind him using it either, Dom noted through the crack in the door.

"You wanted my help with something?" Artemis reminded, desperate to brush over his embarrassment.

"Ah yes. This piano. It's your father's?"

"A family heirloom, actually," Artemis told him, puzzled. "Although my father _is_ rather fond of it, yes."

"Oh good," said the man, his expression taking on that of a person who has just found a fifty pound note in the pocket of a dry-cleaned suit.

"Good? What makes you say so, Mister Bent?" the girl spoke up.

"Stand there, if you will. Up against it," the man instructed, ignoring her question.

"Up against the… I'm sorry Mister Bent, I'm afraid I don't understand," Artemis frowned. "Why on Earth do you ask us t…?"

But he petered off, for suddenly Bent's expression changed and he slid a hand under his lapel.

" _Because_ , my dear boy, I do find the thought of _really_ ruining your father's day _quite_ delightful, I must say."

Dom's heart lurched in his chest as he realised what was suddenly – _incomprehensibly_ – happening before his very eyes. Mister Bent's intentions were clearly as crooked as his name.

Angeline let out a shriek and clung to Artemis as the pair of them fled backwards, bumping straight into the grand piano. For all his smarts and brightness, the Fowl boy could only watch as the businessman pulled out a gun from his jacket.

"Mister Bent - please, what on Earth are you doing? Do you know the level of security in this manor? You can hardly hope to get away with..."

"Get away with it? My dear boy, your so-called security is nowhere to be seen," Bent said with a barking laugh, screwing another cylinder of metal to the muzzle of his gun. "At the very least you needn't worry yourself about what will happen after I pull this trigger, it will certainly be none of your concern."

 _Where was The Major?_ Artemis's brain demanded frantically. _He'll be here. He's always here... he always..._

But Bent's gun was level with his face now and the bodyguard - as good as he was - was still dealing with the previous attempt on his charge's life.

"I take it it was your man who tried to attack my family earlier?" Artemis asked as he realised that - stalling, trying to buy time. He felt like crying out for help, but surely that would be a mistake in itself. Angeline's hand was gripping his painfully tight and beyond the fear for his own life was the sad realisation that it was only her chance interest in him this evening that had lead to her too being endangered by this madman.

"Correct. Well deduced - clearly you are as bright as they say."

 _If you are ever in a hostage situation and I am not with you, do exactly as they say. If it comes down to the wire, keep them talking. Offer them the world. Do **not** antagonise them._

His bodyguard's teachings were coming back to him, but he realised too late that he had probably already disregarded the latter.

"He'll talk. They'll know he was in alliance with you. You'll be brought to justice."

He knew he was probably making the situation worse, but Bent was unlikely to waver at an offer of money or riches now - if ever.

"He won't talk," Bent said, confidently.

"Oh I rather think he will," Artemis retorted, just as surely.

 _In for a penny, in for a pound._

Angeline's fingers gripped even tighter but the Fowl heir had made his decision to go out with a sneer on his face at the other man's ill-rooted arrogance. He would not be cowed by this murderer. Or at least not visibly... he hoped.

"Well you know what they say; if you want a job done properly…" the man sighed, clicking back the hammer.

And that was when all hell broke loose.

Or, more accurately, with a shout of _"OI!"_ something Artemis barley managed to recognise as an ornate brass candlestick sailed with incredible accuracy through the air, hitting the gun squarely on silencer screwed onto the muzzle. It fired, but the bullet was knocked off course and buried itself into the century-old wood of the grand piano. Artemis shielded Angeline as someone burst forward from behind the chaise-longue after their projectile and tackled Bent before he could react, dealing alternate blows across the man's head and neck with merciless ferocity. Someone not as large as he had been expecting - nor as professional - but still _very_ much appreciated.

"Junior?!" Artemis gasped, for he was utterly confused. For one, this was the second time the boy had appeared - seemingly from nowhere - that evening in order to attempt to save his life.

"Stay down, Tim," Dom called as he worked through a _kata_ he had never had need to use for real before.

Bent bellowed in pain and outrage, going for the lost gun. The boy realised what he was doing, hooking the man's ankle and sending him crashing to the floor. He scrabbled for the weapon, but Dom leapt past him and snatching it up and turning it on its owner as he placed himself between the man and the two teenagers he'd been hell-bent on murdering.

"Don't move!" Dom ordered sharply.

Silence fell in the Fowl's music room. Dom could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, pounding. Artemis's breathing was irregular, the girl – Angeline, wasn't it? – squeaked in alarm as Bent pushed himself carefully to his haunches and raised his hands, eyes flitting around the four walls.

"Well, well, well…" he said with a low chuckle, as though the situation were mildly amusing to him. "If it isn't the baby Butler. Good God they start you kids young, don't they?"

"I said _don't move!"_ Dom barked. His hands were shaking, but not from fear. He was _exhausted_. He felt physically sick with the effort of steadying the gun in a two handed grip and his left elbow pulsating peculiarly, but his aim was true and a gun was a gun no matter whose hands it was in. Although being faced with an armed young Butler was not what the oil tycoon had been expecting this evening.

"Alright, alright – you got me. Very good," Bent said, standing slowly upright. "How long had you been hiding behind that sofa?"

"Not long," the junior bodyguard said, eyes narrowing as he checked the man visually for further weapons. "I crawled in through the door. You didn't notice because Artemis was distracting you with talking. Never let a hostage distract you with talking."

Artemis would replay those words in his head later and realise that whilst Junior had been alongside him when he had received The Major's lecture on dealing with a hostage situation, the other boy had likely later received tutorage of the best protocol to follow when on the other side of the coin too, so to speak. He reserved judgement on that. The Butlers did a great many things for the Fowls, after all. Not all of them were savoury.

"Very clever of you. I bet your papa will be _most_ proud," Bent said with a sneering smile. "Now why don't you just flick the safety on that pistol and you can take me right to him, hmm? Now how's that sound?"

"Like _bullshit_ ," Dom retorted. "Keep your hands where I can see them, turn around and face the wall."

"What Junior is trying to say, Mister Bent," Artemis began, his bravado returning now he once more had an armed Butler between him and his adversary. Perhaps not the one he would have picked _first_ , but one which would do all the same, given the situation. "Is that…"

"Quiet, Artemis!" Dom snapped. Now was not the time for his input.

The Fowl boy's mouth opened in a disgruntled ' _O_ ', but Angeline pulled him closer and he quite suddenly dismissed the discourteous demand for his silence.

"Ah come on, kid," Bent bargained. "Put it down. We both know you aren't going to kill me."

"Maybe not," Dom admitted. "But that doesn't mean I won't shoot your knees out."

"Yeah sure, kid," scoffed Bent with a laugh. "Whatever you say."

But then he made a mistake.

He took the statement as a bluff and his hand flashed down to his belt for his second gun.

Before he so much as touched it, the Butler boy dutifully kneecapped him.

The Fowls had never had the music room fully sound-proofed, for many a generation had enjoyed hearing the gentle tones of the instruments it housed echoing through the manor hallways – a fact Domovoi was thankful for, for although the silenced shot manifested merely as a sharp, coughing _'pop'_ , the following screams brought his grandfather running quicker than sending Artemis and his 'friend' for help.

When Alexandr Butler came through the door, gun raised and ready, he burst in on a _most_ interesting scene. His employer's son was shielding a young lady by the grand piano, which had a small, circular patch of damage to its ebony flank. The room was otherwise empty, but for the man gasping and gaping in pain on the floor and…

And his grandson. A boy who stood resolutely 'on-guard' above his hostage with an unwavering gun trained on the injured man's forehead.

"I won't warn you again – keep your hands where I can see them!" he growled.

Alexandr pieced the events leading up to the scene together swiftly. The boy was a bloody _marvel_.

"Alright, Junior. You can stand down now. I've got him covered," he said calmly, stepping over to where Bent lay on the floor and training his gun on the same one-inch square of skull as his nephew.

The boy's respiration rate was a little high, but other than that he seemed unharmed.

" _Stand down_ , Junior," Alexandr said again, placing his left hand on the boy's grip of the gun and pushing it down gently. "It's OK. Good work."

Dom seemed to come out of his hyper-focus and nodded, disarming the weapon swiftly and expertly and holding it out to his grandfather, handle first.

"Keep it - for now," the bodyguard said. "Please take Master Fowl and his acquaintance back to the hall and inform Harson of what's gone on in here. Do so discreetly. If you see The Major, send him my way."

Dom nodded again, tucking the weapon into the inside pocket of his jacket with a curt "Yessir."

"Good lad. And you two," the Fowl's head bodyguard continued, not taking his eyes of his target. "Go with Junior. And not a word of this to anyone until we have the situation under control. I'll come talk to you both later, understood?"

"Certainly, Butler," said Artemis. "But may I ask, what do you plan to do to…"

"It's probably best if you don't, young sir," Butler said brusquely. " _Ask_ , that is."

"Ah. I see. We won't mention it," Artemis said, swallowing. _Unsavoury services, indeed._

"Good. Now please; go enjoy the rest of the festivities."

Wondering quite how they were supposed to do that after what had just occurred, the pair followed the youngest Butler out of the room, leaving Bent behind to face the wrath of the eldest.

* * *

Alexandr clocked the two figures he was looking for almost immediately as he re-entered the grand hall, full once again with bustling people.

Domovoi was waiting for him just outside the door. Clearly he had completed his orders, for Harson made some attempt to catch his eye and he gave a purposeful nod to show that the situation was secure and the man could go back to doing… whatever it was he so ineffectively did.

"Tail me," he ordered under his breath, his grandson falling into step behind him naturally, without a word.

The elder Butler pushed a path through the crowd, gliding between people, almost unnoticed, his shadow tagging after him, just as inconspicuously.

"Major," he greeted his son once he reached him. "Find anything out?"

"Not yet, sir," he told him. "Left him to cool off for a while."

Xandr nodded, catching his meaning.

"And you?" Myles continued.

"Another one for the freezer for you. Music room. I need him dealt with immediately."

"Another?" his son exclaimed quietly, surprised. "That was quick."

"I didn't catch him. Junior here did," Alexandr said, just a little pride seeping into his gravelly tones. "And let me tell you, I'll be writing to Ko to up that 'R' on marksmanship. At least for hand-helds."

The Major looked momentarily impressed, but he hid it with a small cough before asking, almost hesitantly; "Headshot?"

"Not quite. Kneecap, this time," Alexandr corrected.

The Major nodded. That was good enough for the boy's first shot at a human target. Plus it was _far_ less messy to clean up. Both physically and legally.

"A double act, then? Unless we're under two separate attacks. Do you think that's all of them?"

"Remains to be seen," said Butler, unwilling to commit to stating something he had no categorical proof of.

Most of the bodyguard speak would have gone over Theresa's head anyway, but she did not hear their discussion, for she had already ducked past the giants to her son, wrapping both arms around him protectively.

"What were you _thinking_?" she demanded, squeezing him tightly.

"Wh… what?" he said, confused. How could she already know what he'd just done?

"Jumping in front of a bullet like that!"

 _Oh. That._

"I didn't. That was Uncle. I was just looking after Artemis."

"You were not in that bullet's path and then you were – _purposefully_! So don't you dare argue with me, young man!"

"You shot a confetti canon at the guy's face," Dom countered. "At closer range to the gun than me."

Theresa squeezed him tighter. "I was just looking after _you_."

"You did a good job," Alexandr cut in. "Both of you."

"Thanks," she said, warily. "I think."

"A little unorthodox, perhaps," he conceded. "I can't say it would have got you a diamond, but…"

"Then I suppose it's a good job I'm not planning to become a bodyguard then, eh?" she said.

"True," he replied, with a short laugh.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Keep our eyes open. Although I'm fairly sure that'll be all," the older bodyguard said assuredly. "Even if there were more accomplices, it's unlikely they'll try another attack tonight. The Major and I will clear the rest of the guests that are staying."

"And us?"

"You're free to spend the rest of the night however you want. Pick a guest room when you're tired. Just write it in the book in reception and The Major will come get you in the morning," he assured her."I understand you want to be off early?"

Theresa's face dropped and Alexandr felt a small twinge of remorse for reminding her that this arrangement was for one night only. But then again, it was her choice. She knew she was more than welcome at Fowl Manor. He could not begin to fathom the reasons she chose differently, but then he had never been trained for that.

"Yeah… I guess."

"Goodnight then, Theresa, Junior. Enjoy the rest of it," he said, deciding in that instant to reach out a hand and squeeze her shoulder momentarily, clapping his other on his grandson's. Then he turned to his son. "Major – I'll see you when you've cleared up."

The Major nodded and his father left them, the facsimile of a nuclear family that they were.

"I'll see you in the morning then. Seven sound alright?"

"That should be, yeah," Theresa nodded.

"OK," he replied. "Junior – you should get some rest, lad."

"Yessir."

"And boy?"

"Yes, Uncle?"

"I doubt the situation would have turned out as favourably without you. Good work - you've done us proud this evening."

"Thank-you, sir," Dom said, fighting to keep the smile off his face.

"All of it," The Major added, and turned away, striding in the opposite direction to his father before Theresa could question him on what he meant. She asked her son, of course, but although Domovoi felt bad for concealing the truth from his mother, it wasn't really lying if she didn't ask the right questions.

"Can we just forget about it for tonight?" he asked her. "Just… I dunno… I'm tired. Really tired."

"A couple more dances before bed, then?" she said, relenting.

"If we _have_ to," he said, cringing ever so slightly.

She laughed, dragging him towards the dancefloor and mockingly cursing his similarity to his father and uncle when it came to engaging in frivolities.

Another hour passed – or two, who was counting? – before Domovoi _finally_ managed to steer his mother away from the free champagne and scribbled her name down in the guest room book in a room near his own. Not all of the guests were staying and he clocked his uncle returning one of the checked-in coats to a leaving visitor, but other than that he saw very little of either of the Blue Diamonds for the rest of the night.

"Come on, Ma – help me out," he said, for once more amused than annoyed by her tipsiness. It was much harder to hold her upright than usual with his energy-depleted muscles and if she fell now he would be more than tempted to lie down next to her on one of the Fowls' posh rugs and sleep until the sun came up. But he pushed on. No need to undo all his efforts at getting into the good books by being found passed out on the first floor landing.

"Ah you're a good lad, Dommy-boy," she giggled, patting at his face – a little too hard, if truth be told.

"You can't use my name here, Ma," he said, sternly.

"Ah shush ya mouth you," she slurred as they reached the door. "You're my boy. I'll call you want I what. What I _what_. What I wan... ah fuck it. You know what I mean."

He shook his head slightly, peeling her arm from his shoulder and twisting the handle of the door.

"This is your room for tonight," he told her. "There should be, like, a dressing gown or something to sleep in in one of the drawers."

She stumbled past him and fell onto the large bed, face first on the plush pillows, mumbling muffledly; "Ah tha'sit. M'no' movin'ow."

Dom rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Alright. G'night, Ma."

"C'mere a sec," she said, rolling over quickly to beckon him before he could leave. He complied, snagging a throw from the end of the bed to cover her with, for clearly she was not going to move enough to get under the duvet by herself once he was gone. He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed his mother to grab his hand.

"I'm sorry… you know?" she mumbled.

"About what?" he frowned.

"You know…" she said, taking a shuddering breath and reaching for his head. "I… I never meant it to be like this. I never… _meant_ …"

"Hush," he said, squeezing her hand. "It doesn't matter. Go to sleep, Ma."

"But it _does_ – " – she was almost sobbing now – " – I'm just so… _sorry_ , Dom. I'm _sorry_. I just..."

"Let's talk about it in the morning, yeah?" he said, smiling at her.

She closed her eyes.

"When did you get so grown up?" she pondered quietly, for the second time that evening.

"See you in the morning, Ma," he said, kissing her forehead and rising to go.

"Wait," she murmured, sleepily. "Just sit there for a bit. I want to look at you."

He sat back down and stared back into her eyes - blue, but not quite like his. Bleary and half-closed as they were, he felt his heart clench with the love she put into her gaze. He waited until they fluttered shut and her breathing settled, even and deep. And then, when he was sure she was asleep, he got silently to his feet and draped the throw over her shoulders, pulling her over gently onto her side so she was in a loose approximation of the recovery position, thinking that surely, this should be the other way around?

But she was right. He was growing up.

He shut the door quietly and stepped into the corridor. There was still a light clamour of noise coming from below, but he knew his presence would not be appreciated on this occasion. He had been asked to leave for the night. Returning, as good as his intention were, would merely be hindrance to his superiors. For now, at least. And for once he was eternally grateful, for if he had been asked to do so much as retrieve a misplaced scarf, he thought he would probably pass out with the effort.

And so instead he went straight to his room and collapsed into bed, the last of his waking thoughts contemplating the peculiar status quo which was being too young and too mature all at once.

* * *

 **That last bit was _very_ easy to describe just now. I currently know exactly how he feels and I have fought no-one nor saved anyone's life tonight, let alone multiple times, so to be honest I probably have it easy...**

 **And now Cirrus and Nimbus (yes I'm calling them that) are calling, so I am off to feed two lambs and then crash out for five and a half hours - which will be the longest I've slept in one go for a fortnight haha**

 **G'night!**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

 **(27/02/2016)**


	17. Chapter 16: Solace

**Thanks to: write that wrong, Readergirl99, Steinbock, Jolinnn, Kath, Forever Day and Alchemechanist for the reviews. I'm really glad to hear you're still liking it - it's not quite over yet :) I will reply to all of your reviews as soon as I get chance, I just thought you'd probably all appreciate an update more :)**

 **And also thanks to NerissaBlackwood for the fave, queeneezer for the follow and fave and to BadassName and the poe collector for the follows.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: Not exactly specific to this chapter but argh I'm sorry for the two week delay. It may or may not happen again. I apologise in advance if it does, but I can promise that it'll get posted and can pretty much promise it'll be by the end of the month :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Solace**

 _ **Comfort and consolation at a time without.**_

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Day**

The Major's alarm went off softly. He barely needed it, but it was a good safety-net, so to speak. His eyes flickered open and he sighed, squashing the button under his palm and rolling upwards into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. His feet hit the carpet and he breathed again deeply, elbows on knees, heels of his hands rubbing his brow slowly, waking himself up for another day.

The first day of a whole new year.

It hardly mattered; time was arbitrary, after all. It was only humans who insisted on bringing it to order, cutting it into segments to please themselves. How many years have you lived? How many hours do you work? How long have you been waiting?

A lifetime. That was the answer. To all of those questions. A lifetime – the only measure of moments that didn't have a fixed, predictable amount. And seasons, he supposed. Although humanity even tried to cram them into four months stints, nature refused to be tamed, being wilder when it shouldn't, milder when normally it was cold, weather lingering when rightly it should have changed… That was inevitable though. Change.

He yawned, stretching and rolling into a sitting position. He had indulged too long on random contemplations for one morning. Although he had not had long to dream instead. He had been resting barely over a couple of hours, but considering the state he had seen Domovoi helping Theresa stumble up the stairs, she would need at least an hour to be ready.

He'd already clocked which room her name had been scrawled next to in his nephew's typical Butler block-capitals.

He changed out of the suit he hadn't bothered to remove before sleeping and checked on his latest wound. The damaged skin was a little too red for his liking and the flesh was hot under his hand. He dug one of his mother's own liniments out of his chest of drawers and slathered it on, replacing the dressing with a fresh one. He would clean it again properly later. For now, he had work to do.

Dressed in his civvies, he stepped into the corridor and walked the short distance to Room 15. He loosened his joints as he walked, wincing slightly. He refused to admit that the 'exercise hangovers' were getting worse. It was probably just sleep deprivation accompanying the injuries from the night before. It had been a long one, he reasoned. He listened at the door, but there was no noise of her arisen on the other side, so he chapped on it gently.

"Theresa?" he rumbled, his voice obtrusively loud in the silence of the corridor.

She didn't answer and he sighed, opening the door just slightly.

"Theresa," he said again. "You should probably get up."

She made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a groan and he rolled his eyes. If he left now, she would certainly _not_ get up. That much he was sure of. Channelling his inner _'Xandr Butler faced with two teenage sons on downtime after an exped'_ he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The curtains were already open - not that it was light outside.

"Come on. _Up_."

She ignored him, rolling over under the blanket she had been given.

Myles was unimpressed.

"Look," he said, exhaling with forced calm from his nostrils. "I am only awake right now because you need me to be. So you better damn-well get up."

It was a partial lie. He'd have to be up in an hour or so anyway. But for now at least, he could still be in bed, for sure.

She sat up. Blinking at him blearily. "Urgh. You're such a pain in the arse with your martyrdom. I'm gonna start calling you Marty."

"You do that," he said, stepping into the room's ensuite and turning the taps to the shower on full. "So long as it's not Myles, I don't much care."

"Allllll- _righty_ Smylie."

"Get a shower," he said bluntly. "I'll get you some spare clothes."

She rolled into a sitting position, groaning, but he knew it was fuelled by guilt and felt a little on his own part, only to remind himself that it was _her_ wishes they were acting upon.

When he returned with clean clothes from the ever-increasing supply of those left behind by guests, the bathroom door was shut and she was presumably inside. He lay the clothes out on the bed and left her to it. He moved next to his nephew's room, where a few taps on the door had the boy mumbling an affirmative response The Major knew he would not have to confirm.

"Breakfast in ten," he called. "Grab you mother on the way past, if she's ready by then."

"Yessir," came the muffled response.

Satisfied, The Major padded down the stairs to the kitchen. He almost expected to see a few people in the corridors, but no-one was greeting the first morning of the New Year as early as he. For a moment he considered pouring some cereal and throwing a few slices of bread in the toaster, but then he sighed. That'd be all the breakfast Theresa and Domovoi would get usually. He may as well make this morning special.

And it was, for when Dom made his way to the kitchen, a smell some welcome and appetising greeted him that he paused for a second just to breathe again before he pulled up a stool at the breakfast bar.

"Morning," his uncle said, placing a plate of pancakes and a bowl of porridge in front of him. "Eat up."

Dom mumbled a grateful response and tucked in ravenously. His uncle's idea of comfort food was always agreeable.

"Is your mother coming?" The Major asked, placing a mug of tea down in front of him.

The boy nodded, swallowing, washing down his mouthful with a large gulp. "Yeah. I told her where we'd be."

"Good."

For a few minutes, nothing but the sound of chewing and drinking could be heard in the staff kitchen of Fowl Manor, but eventually The Major spoke. He had something to say to the boy before Theresa got there.

"What are your plans? Your mother said she wanted you to go back with her, but…" he shrugged. "It is up to you for how long."

"About an hour should do it," he mumbled, stuffing another forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

The Major grunted in agreement.

"I don't know how you put up with the arsehole."

"I don't. Mostly," he admitted. "I just haven't killed him yet."

"Give it a few years," The Major chuckled.

"Don't tempt me," Dom muttered.

"That was a joke, by the way. I can't be arsed going to the trouble of disposing a body at the moment. Not while Artemis keeps springing world-wide business pursuits on me at a second's notice, anyway."

Dom was fairly sure that last part wasn't a joke at all. His uncle would seem calm to someone who didn't know him as well as he did. Beneath the stoic exterior, the boy could almost see the battle going on inside the man.

"I can see why you cage fight," he said after a while.

Dom barely acknowledge the statement. It wasn't something he wanted to talk about.

"You're very good," his uncle admitted. "How's the elbow."

"Stiff. Sore. Still working."

"You should have tapped," he accused lightly.

"Says the one who convinced me not to," his nephew retorted, for he was certain now who had given him the time check moments before he would have forfeited the fight.

"Not true. I just gave you information. It was up to you how you used it."

Dom smiled into his mug. "Is that what you're going to say first time I kill someone? ' _I just gave you the weapon. It was up to you how you used it'_?"

The Major gave a bark of a laugh. "Let's leave that for the future to tell, shall we?"

Dom huffed in mock-amusement and took another swig of hot tea before his stomach could shiver at the memory of his nightmares.

"I'm proud of you," The Major said frankly, after a few moments of silence. "You fought very well."

Straightforward praise was rare from either of the older Butlers and receiving two counts in the space of a few hours made Dom wonder suspiciously if there was something they knew that he didn't.

"Thanks," he said, almost warily. "So did you."

The Major made an unimpressed noise. "My opponent was hardly as challenging as yours. I was tempted to tie both my hands behind my back just to prove a point."

It was a slight exaggeration. Paul was a better fighter than he appeared – just by pure experience in the discipline of cage-fighting, for one.

"How did you do it?" his nephew asked, suddenly keen to know. "How did you make sure he'd be picked?"

The Major gave him a rare wink. It was a peculiar wink, somehow simultaneously cheerful and terrifying.

"Ah," he said, tapping the side of his nose with one finger. "That would be telling."

They sat in companionable silence, quietly working their way through two bowls of porridge and a dozen or so pancakes each for the remainder of the time they were alone. When Theresa arrived, looking marginally refreshed and tucking appreciatively into a plate of her own and gratefully downing the tablets accompanying her cup of tea, they chatted about the evening, Domovoi's time at The Academy, Theresa's work… but not once did they mention what the near future held.

* * *

All too soon the time to leave rolled around.

"Did you have anything you need to take?" Theresa asked her son.

"No. Didn't come with anything, did I?" Domovoi said, a little sullenly.

The Major frowned. It was the first time his nephew's little escapade in the early morning of Christmas Eve had come to light again. Or at least in the presence of his mother.

"Your fleece," he reminded, keen to avoid questioning on the matter. "In case you go straight back to Ko's."

"I doubt that," Dom grunted, although it stung for his mother to hear it.

"Junior," The Major said a touch sternly and using his subordinate name to make it clear he was not to be argued with. "Go and get it anyway,"

With a short breath of annoyance that would not have sounded out of place coming from any other teenager, Dom headed up the stairs, snagged the fleece from where he had left it hanging on the back of his door and slammed it a little too noisily for the hour of the morning. He was locking it when a dishevelled-looking head of hair poked out into the corridor a few doors down.

"Junior – a word?"

Domovoi paused, composing himself to deal with a hungover Artemis Fowl.

"Yes sir?"

"Listen to yourself," the Fowl snorted, staggering a little as he left his room. "Yes _sir-ing_ me like a proper little bodyguard."

Sometimes, when navigating the relationship between employer's son and employee's nephew – when both had been raised alongside one another, yet the latter was destined to be the bodyguard of the former's offspring – it was difficult to gauge the level of professionalism required.

Clearly this morning, however, it was not required to be high.

"Am I not?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He had shown his youthful prowess as such mere hours earlier, after all. He began to descend the stairs, fairly sure that if Artemis did not have a serious point to discuss, he would leave the conversation there.

"You cost me my midnight kiss, Junior," Artemis said wryly, shutting his door and following the Butler boy. They stopped together a few steps down on the break in the uniform staircase - a passing point for servants with trays or ladies with large dresses in times gone by.

"I cost you a bullet in the head too," Dom quipped.

"Oh don't be so dramatic," he scoffed. "The Major would have stopped that. In fact, as far as I've heard, he _did_."

Dom smiled at the Fowl boy's faith in his bodyguard. It was well-placed, of course.

"I s'pose," he shrugged.

For a moment the heir to the Fowl Empire said nothing. And then;

"Junior, do you know why you are here?"

Dom's brow furrowed a little, thinking that; _"Because I'm grasping onto anything that delays us leaving."_ wasn't the best answer to give the Fowl boy.

"Because you just asked me to be, sir?"

Artemis snorted. "Don't be so _literal_. Honestly... I mean why you _exist_."

Dom almost sighed. He hoped the older boy's philosophical side wasn't about to be aired thanks to the leftover alcohol in his system.

"Well I have a feeling you're about to tell me why _you_ think I exist."

"Well if you insist," Artemis said, as though he had been forced to wheel out his prepared lecture.

Dom wondered if he should adopt his first-term-Academy-taught _'extended periods of standing'_ stance and also for how long he could be stood here before his uncle came looking for him.

"You know why my father is so insistent on that blasted Christmas Day walk, don't you? And why he was so uptight about not visiting the fountain this year?"

"The fountain is important to him," Dom said slowly.

"Yes, yes - but do you know _why?_ Hasn't anyone ever told you?"

Dom had been told, of course. "It's a memorial. For Fowls of old."

"Good. I thought you knew," Artemis said, satisfied. "And you know why _your_ father left his employment post here, correct?"

The Butler boy hoped this wasn't going to be another of the Fowl boy's lectures which was peppered with semi-rhetorical questions, but he answered truthfully. "Your... your brother. He died. My father's services were no longer required. And so he... left."

 _'Left'_ , was putting it mildly. Although as to what had actually happened to Beckett Butler after he had left the employment of the Fowls had not yet been fully disclosed to either of the boys. Domovoi merely knew his mother had been an unofficial apprentice to an illicit surgeon who tended to the medical needs of the criminal underworld - most often, the treating of their bodyguards. It was here she had met his father, although from then on his information was patchy at best. And beyond that, nobody had anything other than a 'pick your acronym'. _AWOL, MIA, KIA, DIA..._ It didn't much matter to Dom. The man was gone. As far as Domvoi was concerned, he had never been there before. And so he missed his father like Artemis missed his brother. Vaguely; as though he _should_ do, but wasn't sure why. As though there was _something_ missing, but someone else had stepped in to fill the void. For Dom, that was his uncle.

"Exactly," said Artemis.

There was a long silence where Domovoi tried to judge whether he was supposed to offer a verbal response to that and decided to remain silent.

"My brother died. Hence the fountain visit at Christmas and a great many other traditions my parents feel compelled to continue year on year. After all, it was a highly distressing event - for them, at least. I must admit I myself suffer no such emotions," he shrugged and Dom supposed that was fair. The other boy's twin had succumbed to an infection and died in infancy, after all. "But as a child, I did feel as though something was... _missing_. My parents didn't seem willing to offer me another sibling, but..."

Artemis's piercing blue eyes bored - a little blearily - into the darker ones. The younger boy only held his gaze, although only through experience holding others even more intense. And this was a _rather_ intense discussion for eight thirty in the morning.

"But...?" Dom prompted, before the other boy could lose his train of thought rendering the whole conversation pointless.

"I lost a brother, Junior," he said, finally dropping his eyes. "But... but I rather like to think life dealt me another in return when your father went on to meet your mother and she had you. I think... I think you exist, Junior, to keep me on an even keel. And remind me to be... to be grateful. And I am. Of you, mean."

The words were stilted and stumbling but there in the corridor on the first floor landing, Dom was fairly certain the Fowl boy was speaking as honestly as he had ever managed before.

"You needn't comment," Artemis said brusquely, after a moment. "I was merely theorising aloud and felt you should hear."

Dom thought the older boy was _definitely_ still more than a little drunk, but the sentiment was still a strong one.

"Well... Thank-you."

"You're welcome."

As much as he was in no way keen to begin heading back to the flat, Dom felt if he stood there in the corridor another moment longer Artemis Fowl was either going to break down and cry or attempt to hug him, and he had had _far_ too little sleep in the past forty eight hours to deal with that occurrence.

"Will that be all… sir?" Dom said, hanging the title for just a moment.

"Yes, yes. You may go, Junior. I know your mother is eager to be off."

"See you… Well, next time, then," said the budding bodyguard.

This was... strange. They were growing up. A few short years ago, Artemis would be babbling to him, asking him to find out some fact or other about the country he was going to which Domovoi shouldn't have disclosed to him anyway. Asking him to keep in touch, perhaps. Reminding him that, on his return, they would be running some _investigation_ or other. Some experiment he needed a young Butler for because the gardener's son just wasn't quite fearless - or perhaps the word should be _obedient_ \- enough for the job…

But the time for such childish play was over, it would seem.

Domovoi gave his future employer a formal nod and turned away.

"Ah… Junior?"

"Yessir?" he said, turning back - anything to buy another Paul-free second, after all.

"On the subject of being grateful, I suppose you did _sort of_ … you know… save my life. Twice."

Domovoi raised an eyebrow, beginning to think that his uncle had clearly put the other teen up to this last comment at some point the previous night.

"You don't need to thank me," he shrugged.

"No," said the Fowl, turning away and beginning to climb back up the stairs, trailing his hand up the polished banister behind him. "But sometimes… sometimes, I think we really rather ought to."

* * *

 **There you are - once again, sorry for the massive delay in my terms. I do apologise, but the main reason is that I refuse to post without a read-through and edit so I never seem to have time to do that to my standard haha Life happened and suddenly the lambs are two weeks older and 6kg heavier. Seriously - one month old and they've tripled their birth weight. They're doing well, for those who are interested :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **11/03/16**


	18. Chapter 17: Lull

**Thanks to: write that wrong, HolidayBoredom, Kath, Steinbock, Forever Day, Alchemechanist, Laura-Wilkie and Readergirl99 for the reviews. Hearing how much you guys are liking this story - and the portrayal of the characters in it... Well, it's seriously giving me motivation to make sure I get around to finishing the whole fic-set I have planned out. Really starting to think it'd be worth the effort :)**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: Major gruff!fluff, once again. Chuffed that you peeps seem to love the guy :)**

* * *

 **CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – Lull**

 _ **A temporary interval of calm following and preceding intense activity.**_

 **Durrick** **Court, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Day**

All too soon, one of the Fowl's older, less conspicuous cars pulled up onto the kerb near to the block of flats Dom would never honour with the title of 'home'.

"Well," Theresa said, unbuckling her seat-belt and grabbing the bag she'd been lent with the clothes she had been wearing the night before. "Thanks for… everything."

She leant forward and kissed him on the stubbled cheek. He hadn't had time to shave yet that morning. She wouldn't tell him, but she preferred the look on him. Although of course that was probably just because he looked more like Beck than ever...

 _Enough_ , she scolded herself. She knew the score and - right or wrong - she'd made the decisions which had lead them to this point.

"Anytime," The Major grunted, popping the locks on the door.

Dom knew he was pushing his luck, but he tried anyway.

"Aren't you coming up?"

"I'm not sure that'd be the best idea, boy," his uncle rumbled, not unkindly.

"Just for a brew," he shrugged, as though it didn't matter.

His uncle breathed out of his nose heavily. He knew _exactly_ how much it meant to the boy.

"Dom…" Theresa began.

"Paul's car's not here," he stated bluntly.

The Major looked into the rear-view mirror and caught Theresa's eye. She looked worried and helpless all at once. He hated it. But then there was Dom, eyes downcast, hope lost.

He ground his teeth.

"Alright. I'll come in for a little while. If that's alright with you?" he directed the question at his friend, rather than his nephew.

She bit her lip.

"Alright. A little while, then."

They got out of the car and The Major hid his proud amusement at the way his nephew surveyed the street swiftly and efficiently, taking up a 'guard' position alongside his mother as they made their way to the main entrance of the block of flats.

As they passed the security desk, Theresa stopped to wish a security guard - as grey and tired-looking as the building he was protecting - a Happy New Year.

"On shift already, Geoff?"

"Aye, Theresa, aye. And who's this you've brought along with you?"

"This is ah…" she paused. Myles was funny about his identity being 'bandied about', after all. But she supposed it would do no harm to say; "This is Dom's uncle."

"Aye?" the man frowned, squinting up at the behemoth. "An' what would your name be, son?"

"I go by Major," Myles said, inclining his head. "Sir."

"I asked for your name – not your rank," he said, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh no, that is his name, Geoffrey. His father is very… eh… _military_ ," Theresa explained.

The guard looked disbelieving, but buzzed them through anyway. He liked Theresa. She often brought a brew down to his desk on her way to work.

Myles looked left and right, eyeing up the security of the place. _Terrible_ , if the wizened old sentry at the door was anything to go by.

"You know I could rig you up some new cameras round here no trouble," he said as they climbed the stairs - one floor, two floors... all the way to the sixth - clocking on each landing; the torn wires of the original fittings, no doubt stolen for resale at some point or another. "Even put in some monitors so that old guy can watch the CCTV... when he's not reading the cricket scores."

Theresa glared at him. "This isn't a manor, in case you didn't notice."

He chose not to notice _the glare_ , if anything – pretending he was too busy inspecting the exterior of their flat as they approached it down a long corridor.

"What?" he asked innocently, if such an adjective could be used to describe a man of his history and talents. "I'm just _saying_. Your front door is atrocious. Anyone could get through that with a shoulder in the right place – here, watch. Step back..."

"Myles, for fuck's sake – give it a rest," Theresa snapped, fumbling for her keys.

The bodyguard gave a shrug and looked to his nephew for support, but the boy for once wasn't watching his every move. He looked unsettled, eyes flitting left and right, then over the concrete half-wall that lined the open-air corridor at the view of the car-park six stories below. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to spot it, yet still he seemed uneasy. It was troubling to see for the man who had trained the boy never to allow himself to be. Especially when this place, as rundown as it was, was supposed to be home.

 _"Here_ _ **is**_ _my home. With you. And Gramps. And the Fowls."_

"You coming in or what?" said Theresa, interrupting his thoughts. Adding, as a painfully clear memory of his brother never managing to clear the threshold without a stoop, hit her; "Mind your head."

Myles ducked through the doorway behind his nephew, although he didn't need the warning - years of experience in the art of avoiding low doorways had seen to that, after all - and noted that she at least had a deadlock on the door. Even if it wouldn't stand up to much on the hinge-side. And why did people never consider the strength of the door _frame?_ An integral part of the door itself, really, when it came to security.

"I'll get a brew on, you two go sit down," said Theresa, throwing her bag through the nearest door on the right.

There were two doors on the left, one of which was the bathroom and the other Myles would wager was where Dom slept in the one-bedroom flat, although it couldn't be much bigger than a converted storage room. The next on the right was presumably the kitchen, as that was where Theresa disappeared to. Finally, ahead there was one more, cracked ajar, left like that from the previous evening when they had picked her up what seemed like days ago now...

"Through here," Dom gestured, suddenly aware that his uncle had never before been beyond the front door. And even that had only been last night. Before then he'd only ever dropped him off outside the court.

It was strange to see such a giant man in the flat, Dom thought. He knew that at some point his father had lived here, but until now, the largest being he'd seen in here was Paul - and he didn't take up nearly as much space, despite his girth. The Major looked around – _checking his escape routes and potential weaponry,_ Dom thought – before he sat on the only armchair in the room, his knees comically bent at an acute angle despite the size of the furniture.

It's was Paul's preferred perch and from it he would shout his demands as though it were a throne. It gave Domovoi no end of satisfaction to see it occupied by someone who, in his opinion, was _far_ more worthy of following orders from.

"What?" The Major asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing," he said, with a huff of amusement.

"Stop _smirking_ , boy. You'll have to sit in chairs like this one day. Damn average height measurements they use to make these things…"

Dom laughed audibly at that and The Major noticed suddenly that the cushion of this armchair was overly flat – presumably because it was often pushed into depression by a weight as much as his own. This certainly wasn't Theresa's favourite spot then. He gave a self-satisfied smirk of his own.

"It's not that. It's just… it's strange to see you in here, is all," his nephew told him.

The Major shrugged. "Haven't been invited in before."

"Yeah and I shouldn't have. Ma will be mad later. Or well… _he_ will be," Dom said the pronoun with a level of contempt The Major usually reserved for traitors and suchlike.

"Paul doesn't need to know," The Major said calmly. "I'll be gone before he gets back and your mother can pretend she's been worried about him all she wants. And you can say you lied to cover his arse and hey, maybe even he'll be pleased with you."

Domovoi snorted as though it was a more likely prospect he'd abandon his career as a bodyguard and take up Morris dancing, but he threw himself down on the sofa adjacent to his uncle all the same.

"I should be getting some winnings for that fight, you know," The Major said with a wry smile.

"What?" Dom frowned.

"Paul placed a bet. Everything he'd won last night up until our fight. If he won, I was doubling it."

Dom smiled, but shook his head. "He won't pay up, you know. They'll be some _clerical error_ or some bullshit…"

"I know, I know," The Major shrugged. "I just wanted to say; I was going to give it all to you. You earned it, after all."

"Uncle, I didn't exactly…" Dom shuffled self-consciously.

"No, boy. You _did_ exactly," he corrected. "Every fight you win makes him money. And all he can do is blow it on losing."

Dom rested his elbows on his knees, looking down at the carpet.

"I never really said thanks for… you know," he said after a moment, Artemis's previous words echoing in his mind. "And I should, you know? Might not have wanted you to… _help_ me, or whatever... But..."

"Don't mention it, boy," his uncle said, halting the stalling apology before the teen could stumble over it any more, reaching over with one long arm and scarfing a hand over the short hair on his nephew's scalp. "I'd do it a hundred times and more, if needs be. I just wish I could do something to get rid of the guy for good for y…"

Dom raised a hand to his mouth, cutting him off as his mother poked her head around the door.

"Myles do you take sugar or not?" she asked. "I can't remember."

"No. Black's fine, to be honest."

"Bollocks. Well you'll have to have it with milk – I've already poured it because it was the last of the bottle and it went out yesterday. Dom, honey – remind me we need milk later."

"Yes Ma," her son said with a roll of his eyes as his continued attempts to improve his mother's advanced preparation skills appeared to fall through once again. Pick up milk before you run out. Put the wash on the night before. Load your gun before a firefight... the usual.

"Milk's fine too," Myles assured her, not bothering to add that – as she was talking to someone who had once drunk a beaker of fermented yak's milk for a bet – a splash of almost-stale cow's milk was not something he would ever be likely to turn his nose up to.

"Good. Because it'd be tough shit otherwise," she said with a grin.

Myles shook his head with a sigh. It lifted his heart, the way her face lit up with sardonic mirth as she dared him to give a pithy response... _Enough_ , he scolded himself. He knew the score and - right or wrong - he'd made the decisions which had lead them to this point. The expression on his face didn't go unnoticed by his nephew, who rubbed his eyes; tired of the bittersweet feeling by now.

She returned moments later with a tray, Myles almost rising to help her before she ushered him back down again – "I can carry a tray just fine, you know!" – and sat down next to her son, placing the drinks on the low coffee table.

"Help yourself to biscuits – they're going off too, so you may as well."

"Honoured guest, eh?" Myles chuckled, taking one of the assortment all the same.

"Oh shut up you," she snapped mock-affrontedly. "I haven't even broken out the best china – you aren't that important."

"Good," he said, taking one of the builder's-style mugs. "I don't much like the place. Too hot and humid."

"What?" Theresa frowned. "I know the flat's a shithole but you don't have to come out and say. And it's feckin' freezing in here - what the hell is wrong with your thermostat? Or do you get that forcibly removed alongside your empathy at that Academy of yours?"

Dom smiled and took a sip form his tea. He knew where his uncle was going with this. On the rare occasions the man exercised his humour, the boy found it was very much along the lines of his own.

"No, no – your flat is fine. I meant China the _country_ , obviously. Far too warm. Send me to Siberia any day."

Theresa looked blank for a moment... and then she slapped him on the arm, almost sloshing his tea into his crotch.

"You're an idiot," she said, fondly.

"Actually, I'll have you know I've been told I'm pretty intelligent for the amount of head trauma I've received over the years," he said with a sniff, swapping the mug into his left hand in case she hit him again and he wasn't so fortunate in relying upon his reactions to save himself.

Dom fought the urge to outright snigger at the pair of them.

"You're a human bullet-proof vest, Myles," Theresa told him flatly, taking a biscuit for herself and dunking it into her tea. "Your job involves you diving in front of things and using your brawn to intimidate people."

"I'd say I'm insulted, but I clearly haven't the brain power to understand whether or not you just gave me a compliment…" he paused, smirking. "You _did_ pretty much just directly admire my physique."

Theresa sniffed, not taking the bait and returning the comment with a scathing one of her own. "You're an idiot if you thought that was a compliment. It's not as though it requires much effort to look like that. You Butlers are genetically predisposed to look big, mean and dangerous - no offence, hun."

She directed the last comment at her son who shrugged and smiled into his mug.

"Hey, I work hard to look this good, you know," his uncle shot back, flexing a bicep theatrically. "And it helps if you don't eat crap all the time."

Theresa threw a biscuit at him. His hand snapped out and caught it.

"Idiot."

He took a large bite of the digestive, his eyes sparkling with aberrant mischief. "But yes, you're right. We do get _'big, mean and dangerous'_ as a package deal with handsome, chivalrous and fantastic sense of humour..."

" _Urgh_ ," Theresa rolled her eyes and turned to her son. "Dom, you know when you ask me what your father was like? Well that's it. _That_ idiot right there is what your father was like. _All_ the _damn_ time. Honestly, Myles. You are _just_ like your brother when you're not too busy being all proper and shit."

"Ah," he said, raising a finger. "Now _that_ one I'm fairly sure was an insult."

"Or the greatest compliment I could give you," she countered with a sigh. "After all, I did…"

A thudding knock at the door shattered what was becoming one of Dom's favourite memories of all time.

It was as though a cloud had passed over the sun at a picnic on a summer's day.

Dom closed his eyes, begging it to pass. Praying for the wind to change, for the birds to start singing again, for the smell of freshly-mown grass to mask the sudden stench of stale beer.

 _Be the_ postman, he pleaded silently. _Be the postman. Be the postman..._

The door rattled on its hinges again.

 _"Theresa!"_

He swallowed, steeling himself. This was no time to look like a quivering child. He had shot a man mere hours before, for feck's sake...

The Major had stiffened at the first knock, all evidence of mirth dropping from his features, leaving behind the cold, ruthless professional.

In the past few moments he had had several revelations. Chronologically, they were as follows: 1) Domovoi asked about his father. He had never really directly asked either his uncle or grandfather, yet clearly he was interested. Myles made a mental note to offer up information at the next appropriate opportunity. He would hate for the boy to feel as though he _couldn't_ ask. 2) Theresa still loved his brother. That much was sure. As much as she claimed to hold Beckett in great disdain for deserting her, she _still_ loved him. After all this time. Myles made a mental note to remember that unwavering devotion against all odds as a reference point for the reasoning to her current relationship. 3) There was someone at the door. And that the knocking had made the other two in the room react as though they had been told there was a bunk inspection mere minutes after conceding to conceal contraband for a fellow student: the fear of punishment for something that was not entirely your fault. For something when you had been trying to help out someone else at your own risk.

"I'll get that, shall I?" he said lightly, putting down his mug and the half-eaten biscuit.

"No," Theresa said quietly, putting hers down with a sharp clack on the coaster, and then again. "No. I'll… I'll get it. You just…"

Her eyes flickered around the room and she began wringing her hands suddenly.

"Theresa," Myles said firmly. "I do not make a habit of climbing out of windows and quite clearly I will not fit into a closet."

He paused, waiting for the sharp witticism he had left himself wide open to there, but it never came and he found himself oddly disappointed.

"You live in a flat," he continued. "Therefore there is no rear entrance I can leave by, nor an attic or a basement I could wait in until I can leave unnoticed. All this I knew when I walked through your door. And with that information I need you to tell me one thing."

"Myl…"

"One thing," he said evenly, turning to the pair of them. "Both of you, now. Look at me."

The door was pounded on again and her eyes flicked back towards it, but she didn't move. Dom's hand reached for his mother's protectively and for some strange, innate reason, Myles brought both of his together over theirs.

"Now, then," he said, employing the tone he used for charges and civilians in the midst of a something of the level of a terrorist attack. "Do I look worried?"

They both looked into the taciturn features, the deep blue, almost black eyes… He did not look 'worried' at all. In fact, he looked calm to the point of nonchalant. He may as well have been the only solid thing in the room. Their rock in a turbulent sea. He didn't truly need to answer, but both shook their heads in unison.

"Good. That was the look I was going for," he said, cracking a smile. "Now, just wait here and let me answer the door."

"Just promise me you'll…" Theresa began as he stood, towering above her once more.

"Mind my head on the way out?" he asked, mildly.

"Myles," she said softly. She looked almost as though she was going to cry. "Please..."

He knew she was serious. This mattered to her.

"I'll only promise this; If he doesn't kick up a fuss, neither will I. I'll leave right away, OK?"

Theresa bit her lip. "OK."

With that, The Major left them no choice as he reached for the door to the living room and strode down the corridor to the main entrance the way he always walked when he was giving off maximum _'don't mess with me'_ vibes; as though he owned the place.

"Wait here," Theresa said, going after him almost immediately.

"Fuck that," Dom snorted and followed her.

" _Domovoi_!" she snapped sharply.

" _Don't_ call me that here," he said fiercely. Paul didn't know that was his name. As far as Paul – and anyone else outside The Academy or his family was concerned, for that matter – he was Domonic Brady.

"Fine, _Dom_ ;do as you're told!" she snapped, turning on him in the narrow corridor.

"No!" he argued, trying to slide past her and put himself as a second line of defence behind his uncle.

 _Classic charge protection defending a secure location,_ The Major noted, proudly.

"I'm not just going to sit in there with my ear against the door whilst…"

But his mother was not his responsibility to guard. She could look after herself.

"Boy. Listen to your mother," The Major cut him off, firmly.

"But…"

"No buts, boy."

Domovoi glared at him, but spun on his heel, side-stepping his mother smartly.

"I don't need you to tell my son to…" Theresa started hotly, but her son turned to glower at the two adults in the corridor again.

"I'm not doing it 'cause _he_ asked, I'm doing it because you…"

"Stop it," The Major said sternly, eyes flicking between the pair of them. They were just as hot-tempered as eachother, he realised with fond annoyance. "Just _stop_. Look at what he does to you."

He jerked a thumb at the door, vibrating in its frame as the man on the other side pounded his fists on it again.

" _Don't let him_. Either of you," he finished.

Dom dropped his gaze. "Sorry, sir."

Theresa looked away.

"Don't ' _sir'_ me when you know you needn't, boy. You know I don't enjoy it," he rebuked, gently. "And don't apologise, either. Just go sit in there. I'll see you soon, alright?"

"See you soon, Uncle," his nephew nodded and, although he clearly wasn't happy about it, he stepped back into the living room and closed the door gently with a finite click.

"Well, I don't suppose we could hope he gives up after a while?" Myles asked his friend with a hopeful shrug of his shoulders.

"Theresa! Open the damn door! I know you're in there!"

"No," Theresa said glumly. "He won't. And he'll just piss off the neighbours once he starts shouting like that."

Myles frowned. This had happened before, then. This demanding to be let in.

"And besides that, I'm not being holed up in my own flat like some rabbit down a burrow. Especially not by Paul. I can handle him and his tantrums."

But she refused to make eye-contact and by that Myles was fairly sure even she didn't believe what she said.

"Get the damn door if you're so insistent – although God only knows why – or I'll do it."

"Ah there's no big reason," The Major half-lied, clicking the deadlock open quietly and timing his next move carefully.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, folding her arms disbelievingly.

"Nah," he said, dropping her a wink. "I just want to see the look on his face when he sees who's home."

And with that, he pulled open the door.

* * *

 **Ah, see! I told you it wasn't all over yet!**

 **Well... it nearly is, actually...**

 **This is your warning; that was the penultimate chapter. So yeah... the next update may be the last you see or hear from me in a while. Not for lack of want or trying, just that fics like this take up a huge chunk of time to get to my own perfectionist standards and I just don't have as many spare hours as I used to. I guess that's part of 'growing up' but sod that - as far as I'm concerned I'll be writing young adult fanfic for the rest of my life :) Anyhoo, the delay in new stuff from me is purely down to lack of time coupled with the fact I usually have to plot it out whilst daydreaming for a few months and then get chance to scratch out a whole plot with minimal detail, then probably leave it for another half a year before I even open it again to cringe at it and start polishing before eventually plucking up the courage to throw it out there. Believe me, the 100% positive response I've had to this one are doing a lot to counter that last pre-posting hurdle :) So I just wanted to take the time to say a special thanks. This fic has tripled in length from its original draft, simply because I was determined to pack more and more detail and effort into it because of the fantastic responses I've had to it. Enjoy the last chapter - I've been sat here practically _cackling_ waiting for you all to read it. It's a particular favourite scene of mine and you all deserve to share it.**

 **If all goes well, there may be a _'MARVEL'_ style 'post-credits' scene in the form of an epilogue. But that hasn't been written yet. I should probably get on that...**

 **Ah, here's an opportunity to insert witty line about people who review... Erm... you can have one of whatever is left on Theresa's plate of biscuits after the Butlers have taken their share!**

 **Tarrah for now,**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**

 **15/03/16**


	19. Chapter 18: Denouement

**Thanks to: Shadow914, write that wrong, Alchemechanist, Steinbock, krissygraza12, Kath, Christian and Readergirl99 for the fantastic reviews that really made me smile on a week I really had not a lot of reason to. It's weird how fics become a part of your day to day life. The amount of crap I've had to deal with these past few days... Well, enough of that. The email notifications "Review: Just Reckoning" really helped keep my chin up.**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS:**

 **Firstly: special note to say Shadow914's review - very praising as it was - kinda brought home to me I should've put an extra warning on the last chapter that there was... detailed feels, if that's the way to put it. Emotive writing has the intention to bring out feels of course, but for those with personal experience I guess more-so. One of the reasons I can write some things in great detail is from personal experience and so maybe I should definitely have realised that and put an extra warning on it. My apologies for anyone affected.**

 **Secondly: I... I'm fairly sure you're all going to like this. At least, I really, really hope so. Brace for Major awesomeness...**

 **Thirdly: Dramatic scenes ensue. I think that's probably been the case for the whole fic though, so it's a bit late now...**

 **Onwards!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – Denouement**

 ** _The result of a culmination of actions in a situation where the outcome was previously unclear_**

 **Durrick Court, Dublin, Ireland - New Year's Day**

Paul Walsh was _fuming_. That was not an unusual state of affair for him, although usually it was preceded by a fair amount of alcoholic beverage consumption and some petty row or other with another pub goer. Or, more than occasionally, that little shit of a son of his girlfriend's.

 _Speaking of which…_

He snarled his way up the stairs, legs protesting with every step. He had got Eddie to drop him off at the flats after being given the all-clear by the hospital. He had been furious to be forced into going at all. His reputation as a hard-man was in the balance. And he knew that in some way – somehow – _that little_ _shit_ was responsible.

He fought through the alcoholic fog of the previous night and some things stood out glaringly obviously. The first was that he had lost money. That much was certain. The second was that the man he had lost it to was something to do with his would-be stepson… He stormed up to the door of the flat.

Wherever the little bastard was, he better hide fucking well this time…

* * *

Paul renewed his banging on the door with one fist, leaning on it heavily and shouting through the wood.

"'Resa I'm freezing my arse off out here – what the fuck are you playi…"

The door opened inwards smartly and Paul almost fell through it, catching himself on the frame.

"Well you took your sweet time to…"

And then he noticed that on the threshold he was staring down at, there were a pair of large, black, heavy-duty boots.

He looked up.

"What the fuck?!"

"And a Happy New Year to you too," The Major said in infuriatingly ebullient tones.

"'the fuck you doing in my house?!" he demanded with a snarl, drawing himself up.

"Leaving, actually," said the larger man.

"Yeah? Well you better fucking had be!"

"I was," The Major confirmed with a small nod. "That's… why I just said so."

Paul's eyed him, unsure as to whether he was having the piss taken out of him or if the man was a simpleton.

"Where's Theresa?" he spat.

"Inside," the larger man said, stepping back slightly to reveal her stood behind him.

"Theresa darlin'," he crooned past the giant in the hallway. "What the fuck are you doing letting guys in the flat, eh? What if he'd have done something to you or…"

"I'll be off then," Myles said brightly, before he lost all self-restraint and slapped the guy open-handedly for the irony of that statement.

He stepped forward, for there was no room for Paul to pass him in the narrow doorway and it meant he got one last kick out of forcing the other man to step back to get what he wanted. They slid past eachother, changing positions, the tension between them palpable in the air.

"Yeah – get the fuck out and if I see your ugly fucking mug round here again I'll make damn sure you leave with no bugger else recognising you," Paul jeered at him. "Theresa, seriously, babe? What are you hanging around with this bastard for? The guy is a jerk – you wanna know what he did last night? He fucking _assaulted_ me while I was drunk. Where's the honour in that? Thinks he's a fucking hard-man because he…"

Myles knew he should just keep walking, but he made the mistake of looking back and seeing Theresa go from the strong, wilful woman he knew she was, to some obedient, dull, little housewife and it made him grind his teeth with frustration.

 _Just one last dig,_ he promised himself. _Then I'll be off…_

"Oh yeah," he called back loudly, as though a thought had just occurred to him. "About that. Don't you owe me? You know, from last night? That little bet we had over which of us was going to win?"

He rubbed his thumb over his fingers in the universal hand signal for 'money' and Paul's face turned an interesting shade of crimson.

"Fuck you!" he spat. "The only thing I owe you from last night is a fucking slap - you cheeky cunt!"

"Be my guest," Myles said, patting his left cheek with his opposite hand and winking at Paul.

"You think I can't take you?" Paul asked, cocking his head and taking a step forward, serious now.

"Well…" The Major said calmly, rolling his shoulders back loosely and making the most of his height advantage to look down his nose at the man before him. "Previous experiences taken into account…"

They were an exact juxtaposition; one spitting mad and trembling with rage, the other a still pool of unreadable calm, fury.

"Last. Night. I. Was. _Drunk_ ," Paul reiterated, seething. "That's not a fair fight by any man's reckoning!"

"Well, I'd be happy to schedule a rematch," The Major said, infuriatingly civilly. "Your terms, of course."

"I'll take you now then," Paul said, quieter now, with more menace, stretching as high as he could to deliver his threat to his opponents face. "One on one, man to man, _flesh_ on _flesh_. And let's see who comes out on top, eh?"

The Major let out a growling huff of a laugh through his teeth.

"My, _my_ , Paul," he drawled, with a quirk in his mouth and a bend in his knees. "The way you're carrying on like that… Well, I'm having a hard time guessing whether you're wanting to fight me or fuck me..."

And that was the straw that broke the camel's back.

Which of course, The Major knew it would be.

He let Paul bring the fight to him, of course. He _had_ promised Theresa, after all. That and the fact it gave him the distinct advantage – not that he needed it – of most of his defensive manoeuvre repertoire to choose from.

Theresa screamed but Paul took no notice, his hand flashing forward at lightning speed, intent on landing a blow to his opponents face. The Major caught the hammy fist before it connected with his jaw. He knew what to expect from the man now – as if he needed _yet one more_ advantage. He squeezed, crushing the fist tighter and tighter, bending his wrist backwards. Bones, tendons and ligaments creaked under skin and Paul's eyes widened as he realised the extent of the underestimation he had just made. _The man hadn't even been trying last night._ The fact dawned on him like a crashing wave, tumbling him over, drowning him in his own delusions.

Myles bared his teeth in a grin.

"Just say ' _uncle_ ', remember?"

And then, in one swift movement, he twisted his arm, bringing Paul's face into his knee and then pushing his lever point up its owners back, slamming him chest first into the low wall.

"Give it up, Paul," The Major said, almost tiredly. "You're not going to win this one."

"Stop it!" Theresa shrieked. "Just _stop it!_ "

Domovoi, released from his orders by the sound of his mother's distress, burst out the living room and down the corridor in time to pull her back as Paul kicked The Major as hard as he could and the giant stepped backwards. Irritated, he scowled, realising this was going to mean making more of a scene than he had originally planned for.

Paul thrashed, roaring at him, struggling to keep his feet grounded as the bodyguard crushed his ribcage against the rough concrete…

"Alright," Myles grunted. "Have it your way."

And with that, he hefted the man by belt and scruff over the low wall into the six-story abyss...

Theresa screamed again, but the sound of Paul's swearing did not diminish in a cartoon, cliff-fall style and The Major stayed bent over the wall.

"I'd stop struggling now if I was you, Paul," he warned his captive. "I've had a long night. I'm pretty bushed, to be honest. What with fighting you, getting shot in the chest… well, on the one-thirty minutes of sleep I managed to get, I might just about put in the effort in to hold your fat arse over here a few minutes more if you're lucky, but I can't promise the same of your trousers."

There was an ominous rip as the aforementioned jeans slipped up the man's back in a most undignified manner. Paul's voice was higher pitched now – although whether that was from fear or injury, it was hard to tell – calling him a mad-man, screaming at him to let him go.

"Rather counter-productive to your aims, Mister Walsh," he said – and Dom knew he would have shrugged his giant shoulders had he not had a hundred kilogram deadweight on the end of his arms. "But as you wish…"

"Stop it! For fuck's sake it's only ten grand!" Paul was panicking now, that much was clear.

"You seriously think this is about money?" The Major scorned incredulously. "No. If it was about the money, Paul, I wouldn't have bothered hoisting you over the car-park like this, I'd have just taken what I wanted. Nice view from up here though, isn't it? That your car? Can't tell from here? Maybe a closer look…"

"Don't!" Theresa begged, genuine tears rolling down her face; the only thing stopping her from running up to him and grabbing his arm being the fear that he would let go.

"Uncle," Dom said quietly, beneath her panicked cries.

Myles looked back at the pair of them in the doorway and locked eyes with her. He could not for the life of him fathom why this man was important to her, but he would be the first to admit that there were some things that were beyond his comprehension…

Suddenly, there was another voice in the mix.

"You! Major Whatever – what in God's name do you think you're doing?"

The Major blinked, looked away from Theresa and then back over the wall.

"Oh – hello again, sir. I hope this doesn't count as 'trouble'," he called down cheerily at the security guard on the car-park, as though merely discussing the weather.

"Trouble?! _Trouble_ you flaming lunatic?! Of course this is _trouble_ – what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"I _think_ I'm taking out the trash," he said, jolting Paul so that the man let out a highly embarrassing shriek.

"That's what the damn rubbish chute is for, idiot!" the guard shouted and suddenly The Major changed his opinion on the man from incompetent wannabe to ex-competent wannabe. He had training; that much was for certain. Build a rapport with the hostage-taker, in this case him. He would never be one to say he didn't sometimes enjoy the tables being turned. After all, _he_ knew his ultimate intention was to put the fear of Butlers into his target, rather than kill him. Scared was better than dead, after all. Or at least in this case.

No need for anyone else to know that yet, though. No-one needed to know that he had no intention of dropping the man in his grasp. It would ruin the illusion.

"Ah right – thanks for the suggestion," he said amiably. "Maybe I'll try stuffing him down there next."

Paul made a move to grab the wall and The Major held him out further still, gritting his teeth slightly with the effort.

"Stop struggling or I promise your death will be purely accidental," he growled. "And trust me; neither of us want that."

"You know the police have been called," said the guard, way down below them.

"Ah, I thought some curtain-twitcher might have noticed the shrieking," he nodded. "Shame, really. Waste of police time and all. I'll be gone before they get here."

"Oh really?" shouted the man - and now The Major thought of it, probably _ex_ -policeman - below.

"Yeah, I've had my fun," said The Major. "I'm just waiting to hear something come out of this gobshite's mouth that isn't abuse, isn't that right, Paul?"

Another belt loop gave timely and Paul was crying now, snivelling. It was really rather pathetic, if The Major was honest, but he gazed down coldly all the same, watching the drips of liquid and mucus spiralling towards the concrete below. Nineteen point eight metres. Give or take. He could probably make sure he killed him if he threw him right...

"Just say the word, Paul. You know what I want to hear."

"I'll give you the money! All of it! I swear! Just please…"

"Ah-ah. That's not what I said," The Major said again, tauntingly. Although by now his arms really were starting to ache and his chest was giving off a dull throb from the strain running through the damaged muscle. "Say it."

A light seemed to go on in the man's head for immediately he was crying it. Bawling it. Screaming and snivelling as he hung six stories above almost-certain death.

"Uncle! I cry uncle!"

"Excellent, you were listening I see," he said, as though praising a particularly dim-witted Academy recruit. "And what else?"

"I don't know! I don't know! Just please - bring me back over - please!"

"I think you owe something a little more valuable than money, Paul."

"What? _What?_ "

"How about a nice apology?" The Major said, resisting the urge to wipe his forehead on his shoulder. He really should make sure he took some antitoxins to cover him for lead poisoning when he got back to the manor, he made a mental reminder.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" Paul howled.

"Ah-ah, not to me. To them," The Major said, lifting him just high enough to see Theresa and Domovoi stood watching - in horror and awe respectively - in the doorway of the flat.

Paul turned his head toward them both, not daring to swing round completely in case the man holding him finally loosed his grip.

"I'm sorry - to both of you - I'm sorry," he said, his breath hitching as he panted in panic.

" _That's_ the ticket," Myles said, but there was no joy in his tones.

He had got what he wanted for now. An empty promise not to lay another finger on his nephew wasn't going to hold up to much, but this was the next best thing. He had just formed a deep and terrifying association with the word 'uncle', for starters. Hopefully, all Dom would ever have to do is mention him visiting and Paul would be instantly reminded of his little misadventure with a certain fully-grown, fully-certified Blue Diamond bodyguard.

And with that final comment – and some considerable effort despite his strength and size – he hefted Paul back over the wall entirely, dumping him unceremoniously onto the floor of the sixth-story corridor. The man scrambled forwards in a maniac crawl with the intention to put as much distance between him and his adversary as possible. The Major halted his progress swiftly with a heavy boot placed firmly on the back of his infamously 'damaged' knee until he screamed, pulling him up by the stretched collar of his jacket until he was bent backwards to a painful degree. Then, bringing his mouth very close to the other man's ear, he spoke in a low, threatening undertone whilst Paul whimpered, head bobbing hysterically.

Dom strained to listen, arms still wrapped across his mother's chest as he held her from leaping forward, but she'd stopped struggling now, breathing so hard he thought she might hyperventilate.

He couldn't hear what was said, but it lasted only a few seconds until his uncle slammed Paul back to the floor where he bounced face-first off the concrete, then pushed himself shakily onto his hands and knees and wretched, throwing up the contents of his stomach all over the corridor.

The Major eyed him with cold disdain.

"Sorry about the floor," he said and then, with a nod to each of them. "Theresa, Dom – look after yourselves. You know where I am if you need me."

With that he turned his back on the man on the floor and strode away in the direction of the stairs. Domovoi let go of his mother, torn between staying with her and racing after his uncle.

"Oi! What's going on up there?! I said _oi_!"

The teenager watched his uncle disappear through the door. He should stay… He shouldn't run after him, but…

"Kid! 'you up there? What's going on?"

The voice - forgotten in the heat of the denouement - was coming from way below in the car-park.

Dom leant over the wall, looking down at Geoffrey some twenty metres below.

"It's alright," he called down. "You can call off the police."

"It's a bit late for that, sonny-jim. Is that guy alright? It was Walsh, wasn't it?"

Dom looked at the quivering wreck on the floor, covered in his own sick – and probably his own urine too, although the smell could just be the general odour of the block of flats.

"Yeah, it's Walsh alright," he shouted loudly, keen to spread the story as far and as wide as possible. "And yeah he'll be fine when he stops blubbing about it."

The lingering aura of his uncle's presence made him brave.

He watched as his mother pulled Paul upright, holding his head steady by his cheeks and talking to him.

He _loathed_ the concern in her voice.

"And the other guy? The big guy – your uncle, wasn't it? – where is he?"

"Gone," Dom said, half-relieved, half-saddened. "He's gone. For now."

Geoffrey was shouting up more questions, but he stepped back. Indulging in another long, hard look at Paul. He didn't hide the smirk on his face. Or at least not whilst Paul wasn't looking. He turned around, walking slowly towards the stairwell.

"Dom – Dom where are you going? _Dom_!" his mother called after him. At least she had noticed him leave.

"It's alright, Ma," he said, placatingly. "I'm guessing Paul's gonna need a brew after all that; so I'm just going for that milk we needed. I'll be back soon."

"Promise me," she said, letting go of Paul in favour of reaching one hand out to her son.

He rolled his eyes, taking one step back towards her and gripping her hand in his own over the top of his downed tormentor.

"I promise," he said, with all the reassurance he could muster.

She looked up, and saw nothing but honesty in those deep blue eyes of his. Of his family's. She let go of his hand.

"Get us some bread as well, love," she said quietly.

He nodded. And with that, he walked away from the scene. From the sick and the shaking form of his would-be step-father. From his conflicted mother and whatever reasons she was there on her knees holding a man she cared about, who had only been saved by the mercy of another who cared for _her_ an ultimate amount more.

Domovoi whistled a tune as he jogged quickly down the five flights of stairs and out onto the street. It seemed ironically fitting for the moment.

The Fowl's car was gone from where it had been parked, of course. _Long_ gone, yet the sirens of Dublin's finest wailed futilely closer all the same. The first police car screeched to a stop on the kerb as he reached it, officers leaping out of it and racing towards the building, calling zealously for armed back-up into their radios.

He looked both ways before crossing the road to the off-licence he knew would be open, despite the date.

The first of January.

He smiled.

Maybe this year wouldn't be so bad, after all.

* * *

 **Please imagine the song he is whistling to be 'Happy Together' by The Turtles (1967) because 1) it's an cool song and 2) it really _is_ quite ironic for the scene. If you want to go overboard, imagine if you will, a helicopter - or drone these days, whatever - shot drawing up from Dom as he's crossing the street, zooming out to incorporate the city of Dublin, with blue lights heading to the block of flats and The Major's car just pulling off onto the road back towards The Manor as the song takes over properly from his whistling and the camera pans up over the harbour and the countryside and then fades to black, echo-ey fade for the music and the credits roll and… yeah, I sometimes imagine my fics in a film/TV series format. And nope: I'm not even sorry to admit it… I also think that particular song would be great dubbed over a really dramatic, silenced fight scene. Anybody with me on that? Or is it just me that likes those sorts of effects? 'Believer' – The Monkees (1966) is also awesome. What is it with sixties bands and animal names? Speaking of Animals… The House of The Rising Sun (1964), anyone?**

 **OK, so that's mostly it. I've decided to do an epilogue for you all, but it will be a couple of days in the making as it isn't actually written yet haha**

 **Thank-you once again for all your kind words and support for this fic. It means an indescribable amount to hear that there are people out there believing in the same Butler backstory as me. And that it's this one means even more :)**

 **Wolfy**  
 **ooo**  
 **O**


	20. Epilogue

**Reviewers Roll-Call!**

 **Thanks to:**

 ***Steinbock***

 ***Jolinnn***

 ***Shadow914***

 ***Readergirl99***

 ***jayjthebigmouth***

 ***P.S. Sword***

 ***just do it***

 ***Lilith Jae***

 ***Sana Lama Samaha***

 ***HolidayBoredom***

 ***Laura-Wilkie***

 ***DaFan***

 ***krissygarza12***

 ***Alchemechanist***

 ***Kath***

 ***write that wrong***

 ***artemisfowlstolemysoul***

 ***Holly-Rose-Fowl-Casson***

 ***SidesOfLife***

 ***Forever Day***

 ***Christian***

 **And, of course, to all the *Guest* reviewers f** **or your reviews.**

 **I'm pretty sure I got everyone, but if I missed you out, do let me know :)**

 **Thank-you for taking the time to let me know what you think. It really, really means a lot.**

 **And I'm not just saying that.**

 **It's purely down to you lot and you lot alone that this got posted. And your efforts also mean that, yes; I've decided to start the next fic in the ficset which has been tentatively re-titled once again, this time to 'From The Rough' but we'll see if that sticks haha**

 **USUAL WARNINGS APPLY. PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.**

 **EXTRA WARNINGS: This is it. The last update of Just Reckoning. Argh.**

 **SPECIAL MENTIONS: This epilogue was drafted out and then Alchemechanist posted an update to 'All the Little Pieces' called 'Cycles' which she kindly asked for permission to post as it is - by my word, now - canon for this fic-set. I can see (from my sneaky review stalking) that some of you have already read it, but if you haven't please do. It's definitely worth it and will help you understand this epilogue, as as I say, it was written roughly and then it needed some tweaking to link it to 'Cycles' simply because I liked it so much. And yes, it really does seem that Alchemechanist, HolidayBoredom and myself bounce off eachother update-wise and get dragged along in eachother's wake. Which is really is rather convenient... So yes, get yourself on this crazy bandwagon HB, there should be plenty of room as I hop off it for a while ;)**

 **And so, without further ado, for the last time this fic... Onwards!**

* * *

 **EPILOGUE - Flinch**

 _ **A quick and instinctive response to an unpleasant stimulus**_

 **Dublin, Ireland - Some Thirty-Odd Years Or So Later**

"And so I said to her, this theory of yours is patently ridiculous. And do you know what she said? She said; I know. I've simply been garnering amusement from your trying so hard to disprove it! _Unbelievable_. I mean, can you _imag_... Butler? Are you listening?"

It was a cool spring day. The sun was just starting to take back its throne in the sky, but winter held on in the chill in the breeze. The twins babbled to eachother in the double-buggy Juliet was pushing; leaning over an blowing raspberries at them every so often to keep them amused. Mr and Mrs Fowl strolled along behind her, sandwiched between their youngest sons and their eldest, who was closely accompanied by, as always, his loyal bodyguard.

Or at least he had been, until Artemis had turned for an opinion on the frankly _irritating,_ prank-like behaviour of his friend Minerva Paridizo and found the man unusually absent from his side.

"Butler?" he inquired again. "What is it?"

He wouldn't admit it, but a hot thrill had just buzzed through him in anticipation of what the Butlers mildly referred to as _'an incident'._ He knew the man too well not to decipher the slight ridgedness of his back, the way his neck muscles tensed. The only thing missing was the hand sliding into his jacket. From this, Artemis deduced the threat was either not imminent, or not aimed at themselves. But still... His bodyguard had clearly seen something he was oblivious to and - as much as the Fowl boy had to put a lot of similar occasions down to the fact the man had been trained from birth to notice things - as someone who prided himself in being observant, it was oddly... unsettling, whenever it occurred.

Juliet - similarly trained, of course - paused, some instinctive _'eyes in the back of her head'_ response to her brother's halt, the break in Artemis's one-sided conversation, perhaps. She turned, scouring the area with narrowed eyes, searching for the threat.

The last to notice, as usual, were the older Fowls - the couple almost bumping into the younger bodyguard.

"Juliet? What is it? Are you alright?" Angeline asked, taking the opportunity to step to the side of the buggy and check on her twins.

"Quite alright, m'am. Just pausing a moment," she said, trying to catch her brother's eye.

She couldn't, for he was intent on something in the middle-distance, just across the street. At least the unusually intense nature of his stare gave her chance to track it. He would never look directly at a threat like that unless he thought he could intimidate the would-be attacker merely by making it obvious he or she had been spotted, so it couldn't be a real threat to the Fowls, she reasoned. But if not that, then...?

And then she saw it, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth - a nervous habit her Uncle used to chastise her greatly for.

"All clear, Butler?" she asked, hoping the professional-speak would snap her brother out of it.

He wrenched his gaze away from the scene, giving her a curt nod.

"All clear," he repeated. "Carry on."

Her eyes lingered on his for a moment, bright with understanding. He looked away and found himself - with a sudden jolt of surprise - catching the familiar, piercing eyes of the Fowl patriarch, almost by mistake.

"I give you full leave, Butler," he said, a note to his voice his eldest son wasn't sure he had ever heard. "Do as you must."

"Sir?" the Butler said, frowning.

"Go, Junior," Artemis Fowl Senior said, serious and certain in his order.

The bodyguard glanced back across the street and made his decision.

"Stay here. Juliet will watch you," he told his charge.

And then he was gone, threading through the slow-moving traffic to the other side of the road.

"Father? What on Earth..." Artemis Junior began, but his father merely reached out and squeezed his shoulder tightly.

"Nothing, my darling boy. Nothing for your concern."

But Artemis's curiosity well and truly piqued by the strange exchange of words - his father had called Butler 'Junior', after all. He knew from security records he had discovered and read through in the past that that term had been his bodyguard's childhood codename when his grandfather's Butler was still on active duty at the manor. But still; it was peculiar. The last time he had heard his father call Butler that it had been under a very rare set of circumstances where the former had been rather inebriated and the latter rather exasperated.

The teen craned his neck, trying to see over the milling crowds. He clocked his bodyguard easily, as was the case when the man wasn't trying to remain unnoticed, and saw that he had approached a man he didn't recognise. He appeared to be grasping his hand in a handshake, although Artemis found it unlikely Butler had left their side to greet an old friend. Juliet allowed herself a two-second glance and then gave her concealed weaponry a light tap. Her brother had that man in a ' _wristbreaker_ ' hold, so either things were about to be resolved swiftly and silently or things were about to go south very quickly. The only person in the surrounding crowd of people that had noticed anything was out of the ordinary at all was a boy - younger than Artemis by two or three years, perhaps - who was staring wide-eyed at her brother. Well, admittedly most people did on first exposure, but this was different. The kid was looking at him in the awed fear of one suddenly faced with something akin to a guardian angel. She turned her attention back to the twins and the rest of the Fowls. Her brother would not be pleased if one of them were accosted by a chancing thief whilst she was gawping at him. Besides, Artemis Fowls, the first and second, were doing enough of that for one group.

Butler appeared to be talking - in that serious, even way of his - to the man. At one point the stranger pulled away and his face twisted into a mask of shock and pain as the larger man did not loosen his grip and instead reached forward with his other hand and placed it on his collarbone, squeezing steadily tighter and maintaining an air of indifference. After a few more seconds, he let go and turned his back. He then crouched slightly to the level of the boy Juliet had noticed and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen from his pocket, scratching something down on one sheet, tearing it off and passing it to him, scratching down something else on another and folding the pad back into his pocket, talking lowly the whole time.

With that, he straightened up. He said something else and the boy nodded, nervously shifting from foot to foot as he stared down at them. Butler reached a hand out slowly, as though to a spooked horse, and squeezed the boy's shoulder carefully. It looked as though it took great restraint from the boy not to flinch. He looked up at the giant, who uttered a few more words and let go. Then, with a last look of contempt at the man the boy was with, he gave the lad a curt nod and turned away, striding back across the street to his charge's side. He glanced once over his shoulder as the group moved on again, but said not one word of explanation on the incident and Artemis, for once, thought it prudent not to ask.

* * *

 **Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland**

 _Thud, thud, thud._

It was the beat of her childhood. And his.

She knew she'd find him in the gym. He was always in the gym when he was wound up. Rare as it was.

The rarity was the exact reason she was looking for him. If her brother couldn't merely retreat into his 'happy place' after an incident, something was clearly wrong. And the way he had acted on the way home... Well, nobody else had noticed, of course. Except perhaps Arty, but then he noticed everything. Except what had bothered her brother, clearly.

But she knew. She always knew.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked.

He didn't deign to answer that.

"Tuesday's free-sparring day," she accused.

"Routines get you killed," he grunted in response.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she sighed, letting the gym door swing shut behind her. "Routines get you killed, disorganisation gets you killed, unpolished guns get you killed... Jaysus, you'd think one day they'll just give up and admit that _living_ gets you killed..."

She waited for the half-hearted snort, but he made no noise.

She groaned under her breath. This was going to take more effort than she thought. She dropped onto a bench, pulling off her trainers and chucking them onto the floor in a way she knew would irritate his rigorously structured habits. But he didn't look away from the punchbag. He'd been rhythmically beating his fists against it for twenty minutes now, taking into account how long they'd been back. She blew her fringe from her face and stood.

"Alright," she sighed with an air of exasperation. "What's eating you, bro?"

"Nuthin'," he grunted.

"Nuthin'. _Nuthin'?_ " she said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, but _when_ exactly did you regress to being a moody teenage boy?"

 _At some point this afternoon when some worthless bastard managed to strike a blow to some repressed chink in my armour and I acted like a sentimental fool,_ he thought, bitterly.

He stopped the punchbag suddenly in his large hands. The silence was deafening after the predictable beating.

"Sorry," he muttered aloud, turning his back on her and beginning to unwrap his hands.

At least he had bothered to wrap them, she noticed.

"Don't be. Besides, I already know what you're over-thinking to yourself," she said, pulling off her socks and stuffing them into her trainers, pulling the shoes back under the bench in some semblance of tidiness. "It'd be nice if you _weren't_ , but then you wouldn't be you."

He said nothing again.

"You wanna talk about it?"

He looked like he'd rather tap-dance barefoot over a carpet of poison ivy, but his sister was nothing if not persistent.

"I shouldn't have stopped today," he said bluntly.

"I dunno, I'm pretty proud of you for not gutting the guy where he stood. I think you stopped at just the right time, to be honest with you."

He shot her a glare. She stared stubbornly right back at him. Not many people could do that. He turned away.

"You know what I meant. It was none of my concern and my leaving to interfere with it put the principals at risk."

" _Pssht_ away with your _at risk_ ," she snorted. "They had me, didn't they?"

He gave a small huff of empty laughter and she rolled her eyes at his broad back.

"So, what was his name?"

"Who?" he asked, folding the hand-wraps and crossing to a wall-locker, placing them with military precision back on the shelf they'd come from.

"Don't play dumb, Dom," she said, folding her arms. "What was the kid's name?"

"Freddy. Franky, maybe. I don't remember."

"Liar."

"Fine. Frederick Alistair McCaugh. Burrows Court, Dublin."

"I bet you memorised his phone number as well," Juliet said with a knowing look. "I saw you give him yours."

He shrugged.

"You gonna do anything?"

"Maybe. I'm in the area next week picking up some computer part or something for Artemis from the port. He doesn't want it going through customs so I'll have to have a word with security. I could drop in. Maybe ask Sean to keep an eye out for him from time to time."

Sean was one of his old Academy buddies, settled in Ireland as a counsellor for teenagers who had taken a wrong turn or two in life... _Mostly_ , that was. Some habits were harder to kick than others and Dom was fairly sure the man would have no problem _'keeping an eye out'_ for someone if asked.

"How convenient," she said, patting the bench next to her.

He sat reluctantly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Mr Fowl knows why you're all... like this," she said, lolling her head onto his shoulder. "He asked me to go see if you were alright."

"I'm always alright," he murmured. "I should know better than to let shit get to me."

"Yeah, but..." she said, almost tentatively now. It always made her feel strange broaching the subject of his childhood, so many years before her own. Sometime it really felt as though he was a whole different generation to her - which in a way, he was. And at other times... At other times, when he was sat next to her with his defences down, struggling to maintain his ever-stoic composure, he might as well have been her age. Whichever he seemed, he was always her brother.

"You have some shitty memories, bro," she decided upon.

"They're just memories," he said emotionlessly. "And I'd rather keep them than have someone else experience them."

"See?" Juliet said triumphantly. " _That's_ why it affects you."

"It shouldn't. Especially not when I'm on duty."

"Ah yes, but Ko will never admit her best student ever actually has a heart, so your Diamond is safe."

He chuckled lowly, allowing her to snake her arm around his large bicep and press her jawbone against his shoulder tightly.

"You're like a guardian angel. You made that kid believe there's something better, today," she told him. "Now if that's not worth more than some tattoo, then I don't know what is."

He exhaled deeply, rubbing circles on his forehead with heels of his hands, dislodging her slightly.

"You're only saying that because you haven't got yours yet," he said, a wry smile spreading slowly across his face.

"Screw you then, mopey," she scoffed, punching him. "I was trying to cheer you up!"

Dom looked at her, all the firey temper of their mother burning brightly at him just then. Strong and fierce and untameable. That was his sister, alright.

It had worked.

"About that spar, then," he offered.

* * *

Artemis decided against quizzing his bodyguard on his strange behaviour. Besides, the man had excused himself until dinner - presumably to train in the gym, as was his wont seemingly whenever he had a moment of free time. The Fowl boy could not understand why, but as Juliet was inclined to do the same, he could only hypothesise it was a case of nature and/or nurture. He would conduct a thesis on topic, if he had the time...

He almost smiled to himself at the irony of his ponderings. Both the bodyguards would surely find his interest in working on a large study as inexplicable as he found their enjoyment of exercise.

And so instead of braving the workout room, he found his father in what had once been the hub of the Fowl Empire and was now where the Fowl patriarch liked to read his newspaper without interference from the twins. Artemis posed his question carefully. He did not want to make any presumptions and aimed to garner only the pure facts. This was quite a study in itself, after all.

"Did you deduce the relationship between the man and the boy?" his father asked in response.

"Father and son, perhaps," Artemis theorised. "They were of similar countenance."

"Yes, but did it look _happy?_ The boy - did he look, in your opinion, comfortable?"

"No. No, I suppose he didn't," Artemis said slowly, then thought for a moment. "Are you suggesting perhaps it was an abusive relationship between the two?"

"By Butler's reaction, I think we can reliably presume so," Artemis Senior said with a sigh.

"Oh," said his son. "And that was of Butler's concern because...?"

Artemis Senior frowned slightly. His son was nowhere near as selfish as he himself had once been, but it was still saddening to hear the incredulity in his tone that anyone should find themselves affected by the upset of others.

"He is... _sensitive_ to that sort of thing," he said carefully.

His son was quick and perceptive, but the notion had him stumped. His bodyguard was _sensitive_ to nothing, so far as he had ever seen. Except perhaps harm to his charge or his sister, but that was understandable. Concerning himself with other people's family dramas - and strangers at that, too - was an alien concept to the Fowl.

"I've never noticed before that..."

"Have you not?" his father interrupted swiftly.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you no recollection of a previous reaction of his to something... something of the likes?"

"Do continue," Artemis said, tilting his head. His father looked almost... _distressed_ , at the thought.

"Once..." he began, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Once, I was angry. I lost my temper. And without Jun... without Butler being there to stop me, I would have made a terrible, _terrible_ mistake."

Artemis frowned, the memory was lost to him. Not by fairy wipe, but merely by time and the fact it had been overwritten by others with more significance to him. He thought hard, his father giving a small, bittersweet smile.

"I cannot pretend I am not very relieved it does not play on you as it does me," he said softly.

"Father, do stop being so obscure," his son scowled, losing patience. "I am asking you - man to man - to clear something up for me. You know how I detest being in the dark on a subject. Honestly, there is no need to be so myste..."

"I almost hit you, Arty," Fowl Senior said, looking away and out of the nearby window. "God knows I am _beyond_ disgusted at myself now, but I almost did, all the same."

"And Butler stopped you - yes, you said and..."

But he stopped, a memory suddenly surfacing; blurred and sketchy. Fast movement, affronted words, sudden apologies...

"Wait..." he said. "I think I can recall... Something, at least. The Major was there, was he not? Was that the evening Mother first read Yates to me? And I remember you apologised afterwards..."

"That he was. And that it was. And that I did," his father said rhythmically, still staring out over the manor grounds. "To you and to Butler."

* * *

 ** _Fowl Manor, Dublin, Ireland_**

 _There's a soft knock on the gym door and Domovoi's eyes snap open again. He gives a loud sniff and sets about clearing up the gym; picking up his jacket from the floor, noticing the blood filling the cracks in his knuckles for the first time and heading for a cloth to wipe the crimson smears from the still-swinging punchbag._

 _"Yes?" The Major says curtly, but the person who steps through the door is not anyone either of the Butlers were expecting._

 _"Ah... may I come in?"_

 _There's a nervous clearing of the throat which both of them would recognise anywhere. The Major doesn't fail to notice the stiffening in his nephew's back muscles, the way his neck tenses..._

 _His charge shuffles in at his admitting beckon; like a school-boy awaiting a reprimand._

 _"I came... I just came to apologise - swiftly - for my actions just then. I don't know what I was thinking, I..."_

 _"You weren't," The Major cuts him off bluntly. "A fact I have established from the pair of you."_

 _His gaze swings from one to the other and **God** this brings back memories. How happily at times, he'd have the pair of them back as young boys, small enough to gather them both up at once in his arms and shield them from the world...and eachother. It was a balancing act back then, too. Sometimes he wondered if it was wise, raising generations of Butlers and Fowls together, but often there wasn't much choice. And with the youngest Blue Diamond in history as the result, one could hardly say they'd failed. But he couldn't always protect them. **Hard lesson, isn't it?**_

 _"Where is your son, Artemis?" he asked._

 _"Upstairs. I took him to his mother. They're reading poetry, I think."_

 _"Good. And have you quite calmed down, sir?"_

 _"Yes, of course..." Artemis starts, almost daring to be affronted again, which rather defeats his point. He pauses, dropping his head, ashamed. "Yes. I have."_

 _His bodyguard of more than thirty years nods in approval. "And I trust there is no concern of a repeat of such an episode?"_

 _" **Never** ," the Fowl says with finality, looking over at the younger Butler. "Junior, can you... can you forgive me?"_

 _Dom's vigorous scrubbing of the punchbag pauses momentarily and suddenly Artemis is absurdly afraid the man is about to repeat his first statement. This was his employee, for heaven's sake. Why did it matter what he thought of his employer so long as he did his job? But it did. It **really** did._

 _"I should have thought. I should have realised and - **fuck** , I should never have raised a finger toward my son - but with your history to boot, it was a **ridiculous** lapse of sanity on my part and..."_

 _The Major gave him a pointed look and Artemis petered off._

 _"I'm sorry," he said finally. "Truly I am. And I fervently hope you can see that. Junior... old friend?"_

 _Finally Dom turned and stared down at the man with his cold, dark eyes. He made no verbal comment, but he nodded._

 _Artemis's shoulders seemed to sag as the weight lifted from them. "I promise you, I **promise** you that..."_

 _"I know," the younger man said calmly. "I know. Now if I may excuse myself, I need to go clean up."_

 _He gestured his hands and the bloodied cleaning cloth and Artemis felt guiltier than ever... and just a little belated fear. If the Butler had exercised the same level of restraint he himself had demonstrated, no doubt he'd be nursing more than just a sore collarbone and bruised pride right now..._

 _The younger bodyguard left without waiting for a proper dismissal, but Artemis would give him that._

 _"All clear?" The Major asked him. As disappointed as he had been in his charge, he felt a flicker of pride at the man's determination to come apologise so swiftly. Not many people had the guts to face an angry Butler - especially so soon after being the cause of their discontent._

 _"I hope so," Artemis said with a nod. "I really hope so."_

* * *

"Father?" Artemis Fowl Junior said aloud. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, quite alright. Quite alright, thank-you, Arty," he said, shaking himself free from the memory. "Did you have anything else you wished to discuss?"

Artemis Junior had a thousand and one questions he could have asked, but he felt his father was done talking on the topic and perhaps they were best broached as sensitively worded queries to his bodyguard after all.

"No thank-you, Father," he said. "I'll see you down at dining room. I do believe Mother is assisting the cooking staff this evening - Heaven help them."

"Such cheek from you, young man!" his father said with a laugh, reaching out a hand to push his shoulder in gentle retribution, as - he realised with a smile - he had seen The Major do to Junior, what seemed like so very long ago now. "I'll let her know you said that, shall I?"

"Probably best not. It might rather create an atmosphere over dinner," Artemis smiled, brushing off the knock. "I'll be in my study, should you need me before then."

And with that the son left his father, the man eternally grateful that, because of the actions - one way or another - of Domovoi Butler, when he had raised his hand to knuckle his son's shoulder in jest, the boy had not had even the slightest inclination to flinch.

* * *

 **And there we have it. It's been a great journey - we've come a heck of a long way from; _Myles 'The Major' Butler was awoken in the middle of the night by nothing but the distinct feeling that something was wrong... _And I don't know about you guys, but I've enjoyed every step. I had this at just under 100K words tonight, but then I decided to add a little more and it's bumped over the threshold, which I'm pretty pleased about. Granted, some of that will be my rambly Author's Notes, but hey - just means I'll have to try harder next time, right? ;)**

 **And after the response I've had to this, there certainly will be a 'next time'!**

 **For your information and reference, this is age 13. Partially written is age 18, which is pretty much the finale to this fic-set. After 18, I'll move to a story based even more beyond the realms of fanfiction and into the realms of original fiction in the form of 'The Gang' which, (*shameless-self-advertising-alert*) if you read my other fic-sets, you can hear a bit about in 'All in A Night's Work'. But that bunch of one-shots is literally scratching the surface. There's eight – plus 'Cookie' makes nine – of the crazy bandits just itching to be let loose on the world.**

 **So yeah… If you want to know exactly what happened to Dom's father and exactly how he ended up with a full-sister some twenty years after Beckett Butler's disappearance, if you want to know who the hell his mysterious poisoning granny is, if you want to know what happens with Paul and Theresa in the end, if you want to know _roughly_ how many more sarcastic comments The Major has tucked up his sleeve and whether or not he will ever manage to beat Grandpa Butler in a sparring match, then _for the love of fic_ let me know! Because I will happily chuck it out onto the internet if there is a demand for it and the more I hear from you guys the more I am motivated to get it done quicker! There's even a poll for it at the top of my profile if you don't want to leave a review stating yay or nay. I may not actually know how to use it, but the point is: it is there!**

 **I'll stop now, but it's kinda hard to because as much as I'd like the situation to be different, this is likely to be the last you hear from me for a while. At least in a large way. I may have a few Lil Rems up my sleeves ;) Especially for those of you on the Myles/Theresa ship *hinty-hinty*.**

 **Well, I'll really miss those review alerts cheering up my day.** **So I will just simply have to promise to do my best to return before too long with something I hope you will enjoy as much as you seem to have enjoyed this.**

 **Thank-you all so much - as the review box says - "for your continued support", for your enthusiasm, for your kind words and, simply, for reading. You are all - every single one of you - completely and utterly awesome.**

 **Your resident Butler-writer,**

 **Wolfy  
ooo  
O**

 **22/03/16**

* * *

 _ **For Steinbock...**_

A large, older man rounds the corner; bare chested and fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, sweat on his brow. He pauses suddenly upon noticing he has company and frowns.

"You're still here? What the hell? The kid's in school now. Nothing interesting happening here," he gestures the surroundings loosely. "The next Fowl doesn't roll along for another 20 years. So go! They're still in the Swiss Alps somewhere. Good luck finding them."

"Who're you talking to, Pa?"

A younger man - much the same size and build - appears from around the same corner. He pauses.

"Oh, that lot. Right."

"I told them the fics over," the older man shrugs. "They're just still... _hanging around,_ as the kids say."

"The kids... Pa, I'm not sure _the kids_..."

"And how would _you_ know?" he smirks.

"I'm not old yet," he grumbles.

"Could've guessed otherwise from that pitiful performance in there," he accuses, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the gym. "Can't even beat your old man in a spar..."

"Excuse me?" the younger man says incredulously. "You _clearly_..."

He seems just then to notice that they are _still_ not alone and scowls.

"Seriously? _Go_ already. It's like he told you - that's it for this one. The End. You want to be the first to know when you can read more of this stuff, you go ahead and click that 'Follow Author' box down the bottom there. I can't tell you _exactly_ what's next, but there'll be plenty of..."

"Myles..." says Alexndr warningly. " _Spoilers_ , m'boy."

The younger man smirks. "Well, that's all for now. So go ahead. And leave a review on the way out. Wolfy will thank you for it."

 **And that will have been much funnier if you've sat to the end of the credits of Deadpool... Tarrah for now :)**


End file.
